


Community Service

by OncefortheFun



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-22
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-02-14 06:42:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 53,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2181861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OncefortheFun/pseuds/OncefortheFun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quinn hasn't spoken to a single member of Glee since she ended her relationship with Puck, quit Yale, and moved out west to pursue an acting career. While doing her court ordered community service, Quinn ends up talking to someone who ends up reminding her of her past. As she finds herself falling for her mystery caller, she realizes there are some things you can't leave behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Every time Quinn descended the steps down to the subfloor of the psychology building on UCLA's campus-and so far she had done so 43 times, 44 if you counted her interview-she felt a small sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. It was as if the world was telling her she literally couldn't go any lower than where she was right now: the bottom floor. If this was supposed to be her 'ah ha' moment, she didn't know what the lesson was supposed to be, but she couldn't deny that she felt  _something_  about it; she just wasn't able to work out what that something was.

Each time she walked down the steps, she counted each and every one, reminding herself how many more times she had to do so. There were 26 steps, a landing, and 20 more, from the top floor to the bottom, and no matter what had been done to the space, the cheerful posters on the wall, the couch, the cubicles, even the height of the ceiling, nothing had been able to hide the fact that she was in a basement.

But at least it was better than a closet.

Quinn got comfortable in the cubicle she established as 'hers', even though there was no sense of ownership in this place where people came and went, and worked out shifts, and adjusted the seats to varying lengths. There were no pictures in any of the cubes because although there were some like Ted, and Jill, and Tishawna, who were selfless and would probably die in this room someday, headset still on, most people only came here at the behest of the court to fulfill a social outreach or community service requirement. Hence why Quinn was here.

At the start of her shift at 10:00 at night, there were far more people. New ones coming in, old ones leaving, the phones all alight, everyone in front of a computer screen, typing away. But slowly the room emptied, so that by midnight, there's only a handful of people still left, and for the moment the typing slows, calls don't come in as often. The early evening desperation has momentarily tapered off until the early morning desperation can take over. People, even in crisis, are predictable.

It's eerily quiet as the night deepens; time crawls along because it's Wednesday, and Wednesday's are slow like that. On every other day, they usually got a lot of calls around this time, but not on Wednesday night. As a rule, people never questioned who they were on Wednesday nights/Thursday mornings.

Quinn grunts at the fact that it's only midnight. It'd felt like she'd been here for far longer than that, but no. It was only midnight, in L.A. which meant that it was 1:00, 2:00, and 3:00 in all the rest of the parts of the country, and specifically New York. 3:00 was the time to have a crisis of conscious; the bars had closed by now, and if you couldn't find someone to slink home to, well then you had nothing else to do but sit back and think of your life and everything that went wrong in it, before your crashed, alone and lonely, into a drunken stupor. If it weren't for it being a Wednesday, this was usually when the screens and phone lines lit up.

There were two other naughty children who routinely worked this shift with her: Thai Smith, and Rosalita Alvarez, but where they were right now was anyone's guess. Tishawna was usually the monitor that worked the 10 p.m. to 7:00 a.m. shift, but she wasn't here, either, and if she didn't show up before it was time for Quinn to leave, she would send her a text because she wasn't going to be here if she didn't get credit for it. She had been ordered down those 46 steps 48 times (49 if you counted the interview), and she'd be damned if she gave this place any more of her time then that.

Quinn blinked at her blank screen. She wanted a drink. No, to say that would be to oversimplify something that was far more complicated. Quinn didn't  _want_ a drink she  _needed_ it. Her body cried out for it, and every gulp of the water that she sipped, and swallowed down, was too pure, it didn't burn, it didn't wipe away the sharp lines, and harsh light. It didn't make the world more manageable. It would have been lovely to have a drink or two before her shift started, it would make things so much easier, but instead she was here, listening or reading off problems from those who actually got to have her drinks, and she was envious. If Quinn could have just one she knew everything would be better. It always was.

She watched the cursor blink at the bottom of the chat screen. As much as she hated it when people called or dropped in for a chat, she doubly hated it when she had to spend four hours of quiet time, contemplating her life when she had been doing really well with going years without doing that. There was only a small part of her that connected that the people who were getting in contact with the center were people with problems, who may or may not have been close to giving up. She wasn't too worried about that. She preferred their audience mostly because their absence just made time drag by. As this was a sentence as it was, she didn't need it to go by any slower than it already had been.

Quinn realized that she shouldn't complain. Not much anyway. She could have just as easily been picking up litter in MacArthur Park (a pointless task if ever there were one), or working in a soup kitchen, feeding the city's homeless, and believe her, there were a  _lot_ of them. There were a handful of homeless people in Lima, but everyone knew all them, and there were plenty in New Haven, and people pretended they didn't know them, but LA was a completely different story.

She had never before experienced homelessness the way Los Angeles experienced homelessness. She had been startled when a homeless guy sitting on the bench beside her had just started shaving himself. In the middle of a bus stop. But that was nothing compared to the guy who just lay in the middle of the sidewalk, daring people to acknowledge him as he got stepped over. And then there was Skid Row, where you could actually run into people that didn't have a full outfit to their name. The worst thing about it all, though, was the smell. God, that awful smell of unbathed skin, and unfulfilled and unattainable dreams, left soaking in the sun for 4 hours a day, until well cooked. Quinn hadn't been so naïve as to think that the roads of Hollywood were paved in gold, but she certainly wasn't expecting them to be filled with bodies either.

Being here kept her from having to go out and serve her community service in those venues. Instead she got the honor of being in the basement of one of the finest colleges in the country. It seemed fitting, in a way. She had left one of the country's finest institutions of higher learning, where she had been near the top of her class, for the bright lights and glamour of Hollywood, and now she was sitting in the basement of another, less prestigious institute of higher learning in what was essentially a call center, living out some PH.D. candidate's wet dream.

The goal of said dream/project was to provide a 24-Hour helpline, but unlike the Trevor Hotline, or the Suicide Prevention hotline, the focus wasn't on talking someone down from the ledge, per se; its aim was just to talk. On any topic. Whatever the caller wanted (except things of a sexual nature…if it made the moderator uncomfortable). It wasn't meant to be informative, it wasn't meant to provide counseling explicitly, it was just to provide a set of ears, and (if they called in instead of chatted on the forum) a voice to respond back to them. Quinn didn't know if it was working, or helping to save lives (if she was being absolutely honest, she didn't care). All she cared about was that it fulfilled her court appointed community service requirement.

At a quarter to 1, Quinn got the indication that meant that someone was typing. It seemed to be taking a while so Quinn decided to initiate contact.

 **Moderator** :  _Hello. This is the Lighthouse. My name is_ Emily _. How are you?"_

The one redeeming thing about this place was that it gave her the chance to work on her different characters. She never used her real-or other-name in this place; nor did she use her real voice. Here, like in generally every other aspect of her life, she didn't allow Quinn Fabray to exist.

The typing icon disappeared almost as soon as her words appeared. Had she scared them off? Okay, so maybe Quinn didn't care, but her alter ego Emily Stark, (and the three other characters she used regularly, Dana Evans, Lucille Hudson, and Sarah Mann), were far nicer than either Quinn Fabray or, far more often these days, Francesca Marcel, ever were.

 **User** :  _Drunk_.

Quinn read the words on the screen with amazement. Whether it was because it had taken five minutes for that one word to come out, or because the person was being brutally honest, and they were currently what Quinn wished she could be, she couldn't say.

 _**Moderator** _ _: Nice to meet you, Drunk. That's a unique name._

 **User** _: S'not mi nam._

 **Moderator** _: What's your name?_

 **User** :Nohbdy _._

 _**Moderator** _ _: Certainly you're somebody._

 **User** _: Duh. Not like nobody, nobody,_ Nohbdy _like the Cyclops in Odysus oddysseus Ohdiscius oh fuck it!_

Quinn found herself laughing.

 _**Moderator** _ _: Odysseus?_

 **User** _: If u knw who im talkin bout, y correct me?_

It was hard to read tone, but Quinn was sure that the caller had just snapped at her.

 _**Moderator** _ _: Just wanted to make sure that I'm on the right page._

 **User** _: Hm. The Cyclops wasn't Od…him, but I'm like Odys._

'Nohbdy' seemed to have settled on an abbreviation for Odysseus.

 **User** _: Escaping the ever seeing eye of the Cyclops, and so I'm_ **Nohbdy** _._

Quinn changed the field input to reflect the two names.

 **Emily** _: Are you in trouble?_

 **Nohbdy** _: Probably._

 **Emily** _: Who are you hiding from?_

 **Nohbdy** _: Everyone._

 **Emily** _: Why are you hiding?_

Nohbdy is typing…Quinn let several minutes pass, then five more.

 **Emily** _:_ Nohbdy _?_

 **Nohbdy** _: What're you wearing?_

 **Emily** _: What?_

 **Nohbdy** _: What're you wearing?_

 **Emily** _: I don't see how that…_

 **Nohbdy** _: Calm your tits. I'm a visual person. I'm wearing a tight fitting green dress. Like the color of Emerald City. Mebbe it's emerald. I'm all dressed up, with nowhere to go. I'm horny as hell._

Quinn found it highly amusing that Nohbdy went back and forth between typing correctly, and using cell speak.

 **Emily** _: So you want to know what I'm wearing because…?_

The caller was supposed to be the one to end the call (or the chat session if it was online), but the Moderators had permission to do so if the session turned sexual or violent. It wouldn't have been a first for Quinn because their seemed to be a collection of people out there who got turned on by that sort of thing.

 **Nohbdy** _:_ Emily _sounds like someone who would be wearing garden dress and cover. Are you wearing a garden dress?_

 **Emily** _: What's a 'garden' dress?_

 **Nohbdy** _: Y'kno a dress u wear in t'garden._

 **Emily** _: I'm wearing jeans and a t-shirt._

 **Nohbdy** _: What's T-shirt say?_

 **Emily** _: We're way past 'Keeping Calm'._

_…_

_There was no activity for a minute._

**Nohbdy** _: LOL! I like it._

 **Emily** _: Thank you._

 **Nohbdy** _: Are you hot?_

 **Emily** _: It's currently 89 degrees out, so not that hot._

_…_

**Nohbdy** _: Are you being sarcastic?_

 **Emily** _: Very much so._

 **Nohbdy** _: It's not very nice._

 **Emily** _: I didn't say I was nice._

 **Nohbdy** _: Good point._

 **Emily** _: Are you nice?_

 **Nohbdy** _: No. I'm a bitch._

Quinn snorted at the flat out honesty.

 **Emily** _: You have to be the first female dog I've ever had the pleasure of talking to._

Emilywas  _far_  nicer than Quinn.

 **Nohbdy** _: I can't help it. I'm a Scorpio._

 **Emily** _: I don't know what that's supposed to mean._

 **Nohbdy** _: Astrology? Like the sign…nvm. D'you think that's why I'm alone tonight?_

 **Emily** _: Possibly._

Okay, maybe not  _far_ , but she was nicer.

 **Nohbdy** _: Fuck off._

 **Emily** _: Is that your way of saying you wish to end this conversation?_

Quinn hoped not. Oddly she was enjoying this call. She needed have worried because the 'no!' came seconds later.

 **Nohbdy** _: I'm in a strange city. That's why I'm alone._

 **Emily** _: What city are you in?_

 **Nohbdy** _: Philadelphia._

 **Emily** _: That's strange?_

 **Nohbdy** _: It is to me._

 **Emily** _: Why are you in Philadelphia?_

 **Nohbdy** _: I ask myself that every other night._

 **Emily** _: Do you live there? Just moved there?_

 **Nohbdy** _: No. Just passing through. I'm always just passing through._

It was a sentiment Quinn certainly could understand.

 **Emily** _: Why is that?_

 **Nohbdy** _: You know that thing Willie said?_

 **Emily** _: Which Willie?_

 **Nohbdy** _: The one who wrote all of the books?_

Quinn searched her memory for a Willie that wrote a lot of books.

 **Emily** _: Shakespeare?_

 **Nohbdy** _: Yea, hm._

 **Emily** _: He said a lot of things, which thing in particular?_

 **Nohbdy** _: 'All the world's a stage, and all the men and women are merely players. They have their exits and entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts'._

The smile instantly washed off of Quinn's face, because yes, she's heard the words before, who hasn't? But for some reason they just struck a chord somewhere deep inside of her. Quinn played many roles. She always had. From Lucy, to Quinn, to Emily, to Francesca…

 **Nohbdy** _: You still there?_

Quinn blinked, not realizing that she had zoned out. She read over the dialogue log, making sure she didn't miss anything.

 **Emily** _: Yes._

 **Nohbdy** _: It got you, too, then?_

 **Emily** _: What got me?_

 **Nohbdy** _: You're a pretender, like me._

Quinn considered the words and thought screw it, she would never talk to this person ever again, never see them, never meet them, never know them. She didn't have a past with this person, she didn't have any ties to this person, this person didn't know if she was Helen Hunt or a psycho ax-murder and she would never find out. Quinn realized that she needed that. She needed anonymity.

 **Emily** _: Yes._

It was odd how that one word could be so freeing. She almost imagined her imaginary typer smiling all the way over in Philadelphia.

 **Nohbdy** _: What do you pretend?_

 **Emily** _: Everything. Mostly that I'm happy._

 **Nohbdy** _: I stopped pretending about that a while ago. There's no one to tell anyway._

 **Emily** _: Nobody? No friends?_

 **Nohbdy** _: Some kids from high school; never see them, though. My bestie travels a lot. My other bestie disappeared off the face of the planet. None of our schedules match up, and I haven't made many friends after that._

 **Emily** _: Why not?_

 **Nohbdy** _: I travel too much, and I've never been good at making friends. I scare people._

Quinn knew that all too well. Yale had been all about transitioning from the Quinn that had ruled the school, to Quinn: Yale Freshman. It'd been so exhausting making the change, that Quinn found herself taking her first sips of alcohol since she quit being a skank.

 **Emily** _: Why do you travel so much?_

 **Nohbdy** _: You never told me if you were hot._

 **Emily** _: What does it matter?_

 **Nohbdy** _: It doesn't._

 **Emily** _: Are you hot?_

 **Nohbdy** _: Hells yes._

 **Emily** _: Must be nice to feel so confident._

 **Nohbdy** _: More pretend. I know I look good, and yet I still need to hear it from people to really believe it. Like I don't trust what I see in the mirror sometimes._

 **Emily** _: I know what you mean. I don't trust what I see in the mirror most of the time._

 **Nohbdy:** _So you must not be hot._

 **Emily:** _You do realize that it could be considered cruel to try to get an ugly person to say that they're not hot._

 **Nohbdy:** _Meant no offence by it. I'm visual, 'member?_

 **Emily:** Still…

 **Nohbdy** _: What's your deal?_

 **Emily** _: What do you mean?_

 **Nohbdy** _: How did you end up on the other side of this conversation?_

Quinn hesitated for only a few seconds.

 **Emily** _: I was drunk, and I got behind the wheel of a car. I almost ran someone off the road._

 **Nohbdy** _: This is your community service?_

 **Emily** _: B-I-N-G-O._

 **Nohbdy** _: Was the other person okay?_

 **Emily** _: Yeah, I got the worst of it. Totaled my car._

 **Nohbdy** _: Are you a drunk?_

 **Emily** _: Probably._

 **Nohbdy** _: Why were you drinking?_

 **Emily** _: It makes me nervous to drive._

 **Nohbdy** _: So you drove drunk?_

 **Emily** _: Do you not do stupid things?_

_…_

**Nohbdy** _: Not in cars._

 **Emily** _: I'm sorry, I didn't realize you were so perfect._

 **Nohbdy** _: Not. A friend of mine almost died in a car accident once. So I save my stupidity for things on the ground._

 **Emily** _: Sorry about your friend._

 **Nohbdy** _: Just don't drive drunk. Or distracted. It's just as bad._

 _Don't I know it,_ Quinn thought.

 **Emily** _: I'll try not to._

 **Nohbdy** _: It's hard to read sarcasm off of a computer screen._

 **Emily** _: I was only being half sarcastic._

 **Nohbdy** _: I'm for realz. Don't try, do. I don't care if you drink, but if you have the urge to get in a car drunk, you call me, I'll talk you out of it._

 **Emily** _: I don't have your number._

 **Nohbdy** _: It's XXX-XXX-XXXX_

_…_

**Nohbdy** _: That's weird, my number isn't all X's._

 **Emily** _: The filter blocks out phone numbers unless it's the number for the center._

 **Nohbdy** _: Huh. What else does the gestapo filter block?_

 **Emily** _: Websites_

 **Nohbdy** _: Shit, fuck, pussy, d***._

 **Nohbdy** _: Really, it won't let me say d-y-k-e? Filter must be gay. F****t._

 **Nohbdy** _: Definitely gay._

 **Emily** _: That's not a nice word._

 **Nohbdy** _: You must be gay, too._

 **Emily** _: Because I don't think you should drop the f bomb?_

 **Nohbdy** _: Are you gay?_

 **Emily** _: On certain days of the week. Are you?_

 **Nohbdy** _: Fuck yeah! I loves me some sushi._

 **Emily** _: That's one of the most unflattering characterizations of the female reproduction system that I've heard._

 **Nohbdy** _: Really? The most unflattering? What about the gaping wound? The glory hole? The pumpkin patch. The cheesy taco?_

 **Emily** _: Cheesy taco? I hope that's not a comment on your personal hygiene?_

 **Nohbdy** _: Ew… of course not. I'm a rose garden, I meant the wet part of it. Cause if she's not wet, you're not doing something right._

Quinn wasn't sure what possessed her when she typed out 'and she's always wet'?

 **Nohbdy** _: For me, yep, always. I'm a goddess in bed._

 **Emily** _: LOL  
_ **Nohbdy** _: Dafuq you laughing for? I rock!_

 **Emily** _: Ever since 50 Shades of Gray/Grey I snort anytime someone says goddess. I can't help it._

_…_

**Nohbdy** _: You actually read the book._

 **Emily** _: Books._

When the script had landed on her desk, she had went out and read the books. She had had to force herself to do so, too, because the sex was the only thing that the books had going for them, and those weren't even all that great. Quinn knew a career killing film when she saw it, as did everyone else who had turned down the roles.

 **Nohbdy** _: You don't have to be screened for this job, do you?_

 **Emily** _: What do you mean?_

 **Nohbdy** _: Between those books and getting behind the wheel drunk, you don't use good judgment._

The words, whether they were intended to be funny, taken seriously, or whatever, Quinn didn't know why but they rubbed her so wrong. She didn't know what to respond to that. She thought about playing it off, agreeing to it, but when she went to type  _probably_ or something equally as flippant, her fingers shook. Getting angry wasn't an option either.  _She_ was the Moderator. She had five more of these lovely sessions to go, and if she ended up getting too snappish with one of the 'Users' she could very well not get a sign off on her service work, or even worse have her time extended. (She wasn't worried about actually doing jail time for her offense; California handed out more lifelines for probation than cats had lives).

Quinn finally typed.

 **Emily** _: Ha ha._

 **Nohbdy** _: Ur pissed, rnt u? Don't be pissed. I don't want to go to sleep with someone else pissed at me._

 **Emily** _: Who else did you manage to piss off tonight?_

 **Nohbdy** _: Nobody. Tonight._

 **Emily** _: Do you piss off people a lot?_

 **Nohbdy** _: Not my fault if people don't want to hear it when I tell it like it is. Are you pissed?_

 **Emily** _: Does it matter?_

 **Nohbdy** _: Yeah, 'cuz it was a joke. Unclench your panties. I hear being a tight ass prematurely ages you. Do you have a nice ass? How old are you? Srry; I'm a horny drunk._

Quinn was amazed at how hot and cold this person, woman, (assuming they could be believed, for all she knew she could be talking to an 80 year old pedophile) was.

 **Emily** _: 27. Are you still drunk?_

 **Nohbdy** _: No, but I want to be._

 **Emily** _: I know that feeling. Lucky you._

 **Nohbdy** _: I'm 27, too, that's for asking._

 **Emily** _: What, oh. You didn't give me a chance to ask._

 **Nohbdy** _: Would you have?_

 **Emily** _: Would I have what?_

 **Nohbdy** _: Asked me how old I was?_

 **Emily** _: Probably not._

 _**Nohbdy** _ _: Y not?_

 **Emily** _: I don't offer up a lot of information about myself, so I wouldn't expect you to offer anything about yourself, and this is about you._

 **Nohbdy** _: Is that what it says in the manual?_

 **Emily** _: What manual?_

 **Nohbdy** _: The one they give you when you're set free on us poor dregs of society that need someone to talk to so badly that they come to this web forum._

 **Emily** _: Is that why you're here?_

 **Nohbdy** _: I saw the website when I was trying to take a piss and I thought Y not? I don't want to try to sleep yet._

 **Emily** _: Why not?_

 **Nohbdy** _: Sleeping is for those who like to dream…and I don't._

_…_

**Nohbdy** _: Wow, that sounded depressing, and suicidal, and whoa. It's not like that at all. I don't have to dream cause I'm living my dream right now. I just thought I'd talk to someone while I waited for the sun to come up, and I couldn't dial the number, so I got on the website instead. There's a QR code I scanned with my phone._

 **Emily** _: How long before the sun comes up?_

 **Nohbdy** _: 6:13. 1h 25 min._

Quinn looked at the clock. It was 1:48. Her shift ended in 12 minutes. Quinn had been so occupied with the call that her usual question of where she was going to go after her shift ended hadn't crossed her mind in hours. It was a familiar problem: Heath lived pretty much right around the corner in Westwood Village on Glendon Ave, whereas her apartment was nearly half an hour away in Manhattan Beach, a considerable drive considering she wasn't supposed to be driving. It was too late to order a town car, and Quinn hated taxis. The only problem with spending the night at Heath's, her sometimes hook-up, was that she'd be spending the night at Heath's.

 **Nohbdy** _:_ Emily _? Still there?_

 **Emily** _: Yes._

Quinn scanned the log to see what she missed. Nohbdy had talked about nothing in particular, except for when she asked what time her shift was over.

 **Emily** _: 2:00. Ummm…5:00 your time._

 **Nohbdy** _: Where are you located?_

 **Emily** _: Los Angeles. UCLA campus._

Quinn was sure that this information was somewhere on the poster, or notice board, or wherever 'Nohbdy' had gotten the information from, or maybe it wasn't. Maybe it was supposed to be completely anonymous.

 **Nohbdy** _: Know any celebrities?_

Quinn chuckled.

 **Emily** _: Would you believe me if I said yes?_

 **Nohbdy** _: Probably not. So, I guess I should say enjoy the rest of your morning?_

_…_

**Emily** _: 1 hour and 25 minutes?_

 **Nohbdy** _: 1h 15 now._

 **Emily** _: My replacement hasn't come in yet; I'll stick around until they do. What happens after the sunrise?_

 **Nohbdy** _: The world._

 **Emily** _: The sounds…vague._

 **Nohbdy** _: LOL. I go to bed._

 **Emily** _: What about work?_

 **Nohbdy** _: I work nights. What about you? Are you going to bed after this? Do you have a 9-5 to get up for?_

 **Emily** _: Never worked a 9-5 a day in my life._

 **Nohbdy** _: Me either._

 **Emily** _: Going to bed after this._

 **Nohbdy** _: Whose bed you going to? ;0_

 **Emily** _: Are you normally this abrasive with people you've never met?_

 **Nohbdy** _: Yeah, pretty much. I figure, I'm never goinna meet you, and if you're as frigid in real life as your name suggest, hopefully I have you squirming uncomfortably._

 **Emily** _: I could be a dude._

 **Nohbdy** _: Nah, you can't._

 **Emily** _: Why not?_

 **Nohbdy** _: Guys don't listen. I dunno…you could be. You could be Jake from State Farm, but in my head, you're gorgeous._

 **Emily** _: What do I look like?_

 **Nohbdy** _: The most beautiful thing in the world: A cheesy beef burrito._

 **Emily** _: That's the most beautiful thing in the world?_

 **Nohbdy** _: Didn't get a chance to eat yet, fkn starving, so yeah. What's LA like at this time of year?_

 **Emily** _: Smoggy._

 **Nohbdy** _: Isn't LA like that all year?_

 **Emily** _: In varying degrees. The joke is that the weather men have to find creative ways to say that the weather is the exact same today as it was yesterday._

 **Nohbdy** _: I thought about being a weather girl._

 **Emily** _: Really?_

 **Nohbdy** _: Yep. But then I found out you have to go to special school to learn how to read off of a green screen and that wasn't my deal._

 **Emily** _: Blonde or brunette?_

 **Nohbdy** _: 34 C._

 **Emily** _: What?_

 **Nohbdy** _: I'm assuming you were trying to ask my preference. I notice tits first, 34C is like the perfect size for me. Give me that and it doesn't matter what their hair color is. You must like blondes._

 **Emily** _: Brunettes._

 **Nohbdy** _: Black or brown._

 **Emily** _: Skin?_

 **Nohbdy** _: Hair._

Honestly, Quinn hadn't shored up a preference, not as far as she could tell. She used to think that it was dark brown hair with light brown eyes, and perhaps a Jewish nose, but after one or two attempts at using Rachel look-alikes to replace Rachel, that had gone out the window. Since, Quinn had pretty much dated the whole spectrum. She had dated black, brown, blonde, red, and gray hair, and blue, green, hazel, brown, and gray eyes, all set in faces that had gone from the super pale to the super dark. Kwami, the black guy she had dated, was a student at USC and had come from Sierra Leone. His skin had been even darker than Djimon Hounsou.

Okay, maybe she hadn't dated the spectrum, but she had talked to the spectrum, had sex with a couple of people on the spectrum, too, but Quinn hadn't really dated anyone, not since Puck. Heath didn't count because he wasn't a boyfriend so much as a dedicated hook-up she sometimes cuddled with.

 **Emily** _: Black._

 **Nohbdy** _: Doesn't matter much to me; a box of dye and you can be whatever color you want to be. Are you an ass or tits girl?_

 **Emily** _: …_

 **Nohbdy** _: Oh come on!_

 **Emily** _: I prefer not to objectify the female body._

 **Nohbdy** _: Bull shit!_

 **Nohbdy** _: I can say bull shit, but I can't say c*nt? So what is it, Emsie? Ass or tits?_

 **Emily** _: I have more of a preference for breasts, but I do like a nice bottom as well._

 **Nohbdy** _: Bottom! Lol at you. I thought people were more loose out in Cali?_

 **Emily** _: I'm not from here, and that may be true in LA and San Fran, maybe, but it's a lot more conservative out here than you think._

 **Nohbdy** _: I thought about moving out there once._

 **Emily** _: What stopped you?_

 **Nohbdy** _: Everything. I ended up in New York instead._

 **Emily** _: You're from New York?_

 **Nohbdy** _: No. Moved there after high school. Can't quite remember why._

 **Emily** _: You don't like it?_

 **Nohbdy** _: Not as much as I did when I first moved._

 **Emily** _: So why not leave?_

 **Nohbdy** _: Not that simple._

 **Emily** _: Where would you like to live?_

 **Nohbdy** _: Dunno…everywhere._

 **Emily** _: That's a tall order._

 **Nohbdy** _: I'm making it happen._

"Frankie, you still here?" Tishawna looked at Quinn as if she had gained two heads.

"I got caught up with a user, and I wanted to make sure that it was recorded that I was here."

 **Nohbdy** :  _One stop at a time._

Tishawna laughed. "Surely by now you know that you're presence is recorded when you log in, right?" She received a pat on the back. "Thanks for sticking with your caller." Tishawna, like most of them, referred to everybody as a 'caller' whether they were on the internet or on the phone. "That shows real dedication. I like to see that."

 **Nohbdy** _: Do a lot of traveling?_

 **Emily** _: Occasionally for my job._

 **Nohbdy** _: Me too. Been anywhere cool?_

 **Emily** _: Johannesburg, Milan, Paris, Dublin._

 **Nohbdy** _: Haven't left country, yet, mostly just the states. And Mexico and Canada, not sure that counts._

 **Emily** _: Nope._

 **Nohbdy** _: Still working then._

Quinn floundered for something to say. Her eyes glanced at the time, and in synch she received another message from Nohbdy.

 **Nohbdy** _: 6:13. Oh, well, I'm off to catch the sunrise. Thanks for hanging with me._

 **Emily** _: No problem._

_…_

**Nohbdy** _: Can I talk to you again?_

 **Emily** _: If you want to talk some other time…_

Quinn realized that the messages had come in at about the same time.

 **Nohbdy** _: LOL_

 **Emily** _: LOL_

She was happy that the faceless 'Nohbdy' wanted to talk to her again possibly as much as she wanted to talk to her.

 **Emily** _: I'll be back on Sunday at 10:00 p.m., 1:00 p.m. your time._

Quinn hadn't spent too much time before now thinking about it, but she wondered if it meant anything that she chose church nights as her time to do her volunteer work. Had it been a coincidence?

 **Nohbdy:** _How will I get you?_

Quinn sent a link to 'Nohbdy's' email address so that the next time Quinn was logged in, all 'Nohbdy' had to do was click on the link, and Quinn would instantly be on chat with her.

 **Nohbdy** :  _So night. Well…morning. Until next time…_

 **Emily** :  _Wait. What's your real name?_

…

 **Emily** :  _So I can put it in the record so your name doesn't read_ Nohbdy _._

 **Nohbdy** :  _It's whatever you want it to be. Lates Gorgeous. Dream of me!_

[Session ended. 3:15 a.m.]

With a sense of loss, Quinn signed off of the chat session. She replaced her headset, and after a second of thinking about it, printed off a transcript of the conversation. She collected it off of the printer, stuffed it in her bag, and walked up the 20 steps, and then 26 more, out into the night.

The chat session had left her feeling off-kilter. That woman (if it was a woman), had been a veritable paradox, she was arrogant, yet self-conscious, flirtatious, yet reserved, funny, irritating, crass, and entertaining. She reminded Quinn of Santana, and that's what bothered her most of all because with the exception of fleeting moments when she heard a song that sounded like something Santana might listen to, or she saw a willowy dancer dancing behind the latest pop sensation, or Quinn found herself listening to gospel music, or even more, at a black church, or Rachel Berry flashed across her screen…she hadn't thought about any of the Glee kids in years. She hadn't talked, email, texted, or Facebooked any of them since she and Puck ended their year long relationship. She had no idea what was going on with them, and 360 days out of the year, she didn't want to know. They, like Yale, like Lima, like Beth, and the car accident, and the crazy, had all been wrapped into one nice, neat package, and had been buried in New Haven, just like Quinn Fabray had.

But for the first time in several years she found herself wondering about the life that she left behind: the Glee kids, where they were, what they were doing with themselves. She didn't care about all of them, or even most of them, really, her mind was only interested in one. Santana. There was something about 'Nohbdy' that made her think of her sometimes friend from high school. As she left the studio, and waited for her cab to take her back to Manhattan Beach, she caught herself wondering what had happened to her once kind of best friend.


	2. Rebecca

 

"Fucking asshole," Santana hissed, wiping off the spilled drink. "Harvey, pass me a napkin?"

The bartender handed her a whole roll of paper towels.

"I'm sorry," the guy who had bumped her arm said. "How about I make it up to you by buying you your next drink?"

"How 'bout you watch where you're fucking going next time? This isn't a damned wet t-shirt contest."

"Snix," a voice she recognized as belonging to Grover hissed in her ear. Seconds later there was a hand on her waist. "This is Vance Pullman, with Altworld Records. Please tell me you were being your charming self."

Santana's face flushed in embarrassment, but she managed an impressive sneer. "Of course I was. I was just letting him buy me a drink."

"Forgive her, it's been a bad night."

Vance eyes twinkled as he stared in obvious appreciation of Santana. "I deal with musicians for a living. I know bad nights."

"Snix, Vance came out here to see us perform a set."

Santana cocked an interested brow. "I love Upsell Falls," Vance said. "I saw you when you played in Detroit and Chicago. I was in the area checking out some talent I got wind of, and I ended up seeing you guys perform. You've got a nice sound."

"Thank you," Grover said. The sound, the image, all of that was Grover and Reese, the lead singer and drummer. Santana was back-up vocals, but Grover made sure that they played at least one song that showcased Santana's vocals strongly every set.  _Upsell Falls_ , was a kind of hip-hop/ alternative fusion band with an underside R&B feel. It seemed to have serious appeal with college students and the hipster crowd. They had finally made it to the point where they were actually being requested, and their music played on the smaller radio stations.

After years, (and years) of limited success, they had just now gotten to the point where they had consistent work every weekend.

"We're pretty modest, but we've had some successes. We produced our own record in college called "Show Me", and sold a thousand copies over one weekend. I know that's not platinum sales, but for a college band, with no marketing resources, that's pretty good. Our YouTube videos get about a hundred thousand hits apiece; 'Friend of Mine', even hit a million."

She sounded like she was making a pitch, but she knew Grover and Reese wouldn't, so somebody had to. She wondered if that was why the band kept her (and kept her mostly happy): because she was good with the business side of things. She wondered this from time to time because the band could easily do well without her. (Maybe not easily, but Grover and Reese were the real crowd pleasers. She was just kind of there to look and sound pretty).

"That sounds like you guys are off to a good start. Listen, I'm just here to get a listen. Don't mind me. Although…the offer still on the table for that drink…"

Santana plastered a smile on her face, and allowed him to buy her a shot. She didn't like the guy, but she didn't really know how to turn down free liquor, either. Not if it got them signed with a record company.

Their break ended and they were back on stage. It was this moment that Santana lived for. Not the crowd, she didn't really need them; it was the stage that was her mistress. She could be up there alone, just as long as it was a raised platform, with the feel of the lights on her face, music playing around her, and her singing with everything that she had. It was the best high she had ever experienced. That it was something that gave joy to other people, that people enjoyed the thing that made her feel so happy, that was just a bonus.

As they performed, Santana went to her special place; in her head she was back in high school, dancing and singing with people that she'd refused to admit that she'd actually liked. From time to time Santana missed this part of McKinley High, and on her more vulnerable days, Santana caught herself looking over her shoulder to see if Brittany was dancing beside her.

Reese saw the expression in her eyes, nodded, and smiled at her like he understood. Grover danced around her, and Santana's flirtatious personality seeped out, keeping beat with the music that they were producing. The crowd's energy increased in sync with the band's energy. Santana, in turn, fed off of it and gave them more. It was such a rush. Every time she paused to wonder why she was putting herself through this slow form of torture, she remembered every time her feet hit the stage.

"Alright, last song of the night," Reese called, his Australian accent thoroughly pronounced. "Any requests?"

"Rebecca," was the call that came out the loudest.

Santana grimaced. She had first sung the song on stage because they hadn't prepared enough songs for the set, and they were one short and needed something to sing. Santana had been in a kind of mood prior to that, and it was her choice, so she sang that song. Apparently, the depth of emotion that Santana brought to the made for TV song, made it one that the crowd couldn't get enough of. 'Any request's or 'audience choice' became almost synonymous with 'Rebecca'.

Lou played her in, and she started in on those familiar lyrics. " _Rebecca moves across the world, she's a sirocco on the sand, she is the Nile that flows forever, cutting a wound across the land. She'll be your friend before you know her, she'll have your trust before it's earned, but like any nomad, she will wander, breaking the hearts of all concerned._ "

The audience fell silent as she sang, mesmerized. Even her bandmates seemed to be at a loss even though they had heard this song so many times in the past. She only sang it on stage, it was the only time she allowed herself to even feel the words. Just like the song had complete control over her, she had complete control over the audience. She could feel it, see it in the way that eyes stayed fixed on her, taste it in the way mouths hung open, hardly daring to breathe for fear that the sound would obscure Santana's singing.

Santana dared a glance at the exec, who was watching the audience almost as raptly as he was watching her sing. Santana focused her eyes on a girl in the crowd. Blacked haired with nearly black eyes staring back at Santana. Santana focused all her energy on the words of the song, and the girl that was in the crowd, hoping to push out all extra thoughts. Santana finished the song, and gave her a briefly questioning look. The girl gave a slight nod.

The applause was immediate. It wasn't as boisterous as it was when they played an upbeat jam, it was more reverence; they were worshipping her with her applause. If she could, she would have stayed up on the stage forever, but the problem with heights, was that you had to eventually come back down, and Santana didn't do so well with her feet on the ground.

Vance handed Santana a business card as the band came off the stage. "Look, kids, I have to go, but I just wanted to let you know that you guys were great! Give me a call when you get the chance. We should talk."

Santana handed the card to Grover, giving Vance her best show smile. "So you enjoyed the performance?"

"Immensely. Don't wait too long."

Reese, Lou, Grover, and Stacks gave excited little squeals; Santana let her smile widen. "Hey, none of that fake sneer, Snix," Stacks challenged. "Let's get a real smile from you. This is epic.  _Alt_ world. We're on our way, guys. I told you, I told you we just had to keep pushing through. Whoa."

They crowded into the booth that had been reserved just for them, and placed orders with the waitress. Santana wandered over to the bar, preferring to order her drink straight from it. She requested a simple Jack & Coke. While she was waiting, she felt a presence near her arm, and without turning she knew it was the girl from the crowd.

"You guys were really good," the girl said, yelling to be heard over the music that had been turned on.

Santana kicked out the bar stool beside her, gesturing for the girl to sit. "Thanks."

"I'm Hannah!"

"Snix."

"I like that," Hannah said. Santana titled her head to the side and didn't respond to that. "You guys were great."

Santana looked her over. "You're not so bad yourself." Santana heard her name called. Without taking her eyes off the girl she said, "My mates are kind of being annoying, I guess we're celebrating. You hanging around?"

Last call was in a few minutes. She nodded. "Cool."

"Look at you picking up the Shiela," Reese cheered when Santana slid into the booth. "Sexy Snix always gets the ladies."

Santana laughed along with her band mates, even though Reese and Stacks were far more likely to take someone home than she was. Reese reminded her of an Australian Noah Puckerman, and Stacks…he was in a whole different realm.

They speculated about Vance, they talked about band rehearsals, new songs…the same things they talked about all the time. At last call, they broke apart. Grover to call his girlfriend and wish her a good night, Stacks to hit up an after club, and Reese and Lou back to the hotel, possibly to hook up. If it went sour, then Lou would eventually be replaced to save band drama; it'd already happened once, and no doubt it would happen again; just the nature of the beast.

Santana went looking for her girl, Hannah. She found her lounging at the bar, just waiting for Santana to go back and pick her up.

"Ready?" Santana questioned without any preamble. She extended a hand, and the girl didn't waste any time in taking it. Santana paused in the doorway. "You are over 18, right?"

Hannah laughed. "Of course! Would you like to see some ID?"

Hannah was joking, but Santana was not. "Yes, actually." She left Hannah standing where she was and asked something of the bouncer. He nodded, snickered, and handed her over the flash light. Hannah actually had her ID out and waiting for Santana. She ran the light over the ID. Satisfied, she returned the ID and the light, and led her around the back to where the recently acquired band bus was located.

"You want something to drink?" Santana questioned. She was already at the counter, fixing a shot. There was nothing in the mini-fridge to chase it down with, so Santana settled on water. She turned around to see Hannah looking around. "So this is your guys' bus?" she questioned.

Santana leaned back against the counter. "Oversized van, and yeah. This is our home. Bienvenidos."

"That means 'welcome', right?"

'Si."

Hannah grinned in amazement. "Do you speak Spanish fluently?"

Santana gave a nod. "Yep."

"You're…?"

"Mexican. You?" she questioned only because the girl had asked it of her. "Thai."

"I like Thai. Do you speak Thai?"

"No. I'm a Twinkie. Lived here my whole life. Say something in Spanish."

Santana eyes glanced over her in appreciation. "Bailes para mi."

Hannah giggled. "What does that mean?"

"Dance for me."

Hannah's expression was coy. "There's no music."

Barely moving, Santana switched on the speaker system. It was currently connected to her iPod, and Sade's  _Kiss of Life_  filled the van. Santana pointed up. "Now there is."

Hannah walked toward Santana. "Are you going to dance with me?" she questioned. Santana hovered, indecisive, so Hannah covered more of the ground, swaying sensually with the music. There was absolutely no organization to Santana's iPod so literally any song could have started playing; it just worked out that the song worked so well for the situation.

When Hannah was only a few feet away, Santana covered the distance between the two of them. Hannah looked into her eyes, wetting her lips. Santana didn't hesitate. She pulled Hannah to her, kissing her fiercely. Just not on the lips. She attacked the girl's jaw and neck. Hannah offered her more access while at the same time trying to capture her lips.

"You were so amazing," Hannah panted.

Santana lifted her lips from the girl's neck. "Just shut up, and fuck me," she hissed. There was a moment where the girl had that familiar look of disappointment, but it was quickly gone. Santana knew that look well. It was the look of a girl who thought that her stage crush was a deep and complexly intimate person, only to realize that they only wanted that one thing.  _Sorry_ , Santana wanted to tell her.  _You're not going to meet your soul mate like this_. Damn it. Santana stopped in her ministrations, and pulled away.

This, this was what was wrong with high's. Afterwards you came crashing down so far, and Santana couldn't quite figure out how to counteract that feeling of loss. Sometimes girls worked, but it always seemed like she was just off with everyone she met. The times she wanted to talk, she ended up picking a 'shiela' who simply wanted to have that distinction of sleeping with a musician, and the times she wanted to have cold, meaningless sex, she seemed to find the girls who wanted to talk. To get to know her. The ones who believed that they wanted to be with her more intimately, because she was a pretty face, and she could sing really well, and they thought that that was all that mattered in life.

Hannah frowned at the loss of contact. "Did I do something wrong?" Hannah questioned.

Santana shook her head. "No, sweets, I just realized how much that performance took it out on me."

"Who's Rebecca?" Hannah questioned abruptly. Santana rolled her eyes.  _Seriously_.

"It's just a song."

"You wouldn't sing it the way you do if you didn't connect to it."

Santana laughed awkwardly; the last thing she wanted to think about were the words of that song.

"It's just a song," Santana repeated. She gestured. "Sorry about this. I'm not feeling very energetic at the moment."

"You want me to hang with you? I mean cause if you want to just hang, I'm cool with that?"

"Hey, some other time angel, yeah? It's late, I'm kind of thinking I should get to bed."

Santana couldn't say when the girl had looked more disappointed, when Santana told her to fuck her, or just now.

"Umm…yeah, okay."

Santana didn't actually offer her number, and Hannah, realizing that she'd been dismissed, was too prideful to actually ask for it. Santana watched her out, locking the door behind her after she was gone. "What the fuck is wrong with me?" Santana demanded.

She started to pour herself another shot, thought  _fuck it_ , and just grabbed the whole bottle instead. She found Stacks laptop from its spot underneath the seat. Stacks was far more trusting than anyone in this world had any right to be. The password for his laptop was simply 'o-p-e-n', and he let everyone use it. Santana took another shot, and logged onto Facebook and Twitter. She updated the bands page with a few pictures from the night, and tweeted from the official Upsell Falls account, before she switched to her own. She added a few new friends, looked up status updates, tweeted something about tonight's concert, and pretended that she wasn't on Facebook for one purpose.

She checked Brittany's page. Her best friend, and sometimes lover, usually only updated her profile once a week on Sunday nights at 4:00, no matter where she was. Tonight though, she must have sensed Santana's mood, because she updated it with a picture of her, Brittany, and Quinn, all wearing their Cheerios outfits. Santana and Quinn both had black braces on their wrists. Santana read the caption beneath the photo.  _Santana Lopez remember the back hand spring tuck incident? Happy #ThrowbackThursday._

Santana's hand hovered, but she moved the mouse to click on the name of the other blonde in the picture. She was directed from Brittany's page to Quinn's not really knowing why she was here. Most of the time when she got the itch to look on Quinn's page, it was enough just to type Q-U in the search bar and see that tiny thumbnail picture come up, but once or twice a year she got the urge for more. The urge to sift her profile, to look through all of her pictures, to read her wall posts, her notes, her likes. She wasn't quite sure why. It wasn't really to glean information; she knew mostly all of her information personally. She had been there for those moments.

Santana headed for the pictures, and she figured this wasn't stalking because a shocking amount of the pictures were of her and Santana. Then there were a handful of Rachel and Quinn, and then the Yale photos. In just about each one of those, her eyes were bright, mega-watt smile stretched across her lips. An aurora of happiness seemed to surround her, contentment bleeding into the pictures that all seemed to be taken candidly (and were all tagged by other people besides Quinn). In her Yale photos she seemed so carefree and happy, distinguished yet approachable. It was all fake, Santana knew, but no one else had. Santana lost track of how people claimed that they and Quinn were BFFs.

In the pictures with Puck, Quinn looked different. She had a different smile, she seemed happy, but each photo had looked like a premonition of their impending break up. Puck wasn't smart, he wasn't cultured, he came from a broken home, and wasn't Christian; all damning things, but things that had nothing to do with their break up. His real fault was that he made Quinn want less; he made Quinn happy, and that was the one cardinal sin of Quinn Fabray's life.

The last ever status update that had come from Quinn was the notice that she and Puck were no longer in a relationship. The update was dated a month after Santana knew their relationship to have ended, and since it was Quinn's last, it almost suggested that the break up was the cause of her giving up her current social media life and dashing off into the wild blue. It was plausible, but Santana didn't buy it. She thought the status update before the break up one was far more telling. It was an obituary that Quinn had posted, and apparently written, about herself. It was supposedly something her psychology professor had made the class do as a writing assignment, (it was one of those get to know thy self-things). Maybe she had gotten to know herself, and that's why she disappeared, or maybe she just got tired of pretending.

Whatever it was, those two items were Quinn's parting words: a relationship status change and an obituary written by one Lucy Quinn Fabray. The obit had an ominous date of death that put Quinn at being 31 (months later it changed to reflect that she lived until she was 80, and the word 'tragically' was removed, though the obit had remained as somber as it was originally). If not for Quinn having protested so vehemently against Karofsky's suicide attempt, it might lead one to believe that Quinn had said good-bye to the world; especially since no one had seen her, or heard from her, after that moment.

Quinn had simply dropped off the face of the Earth as far as anyone could tell. No one knew anything else after that. She didn't talk to Rachel, or Mercedes, or Brittany, or Tina, and certainly not Santana. Not even Judy could say what had happened to her. Google was silent about her whereabouts; she was just gone, like Rebecca.

Santana was loathe to admit it, but the fact that she hadn't even gotten a proper good-bye chafed her. She and Quinn had an odd sort of relationship. They weren't always friends; sometimes the best that could be said about their relationship was that they weren't enemies. At a vulnerable moment they had ended up in bed with each other, and the experience hadn't been terrible, but it apparently didn't bear a repeat, because the two talked about as much after that, as they did before, which was very rarely.

As she did whenever she found herself weak enough to cyber stalk Quinn, she berated herself for caring about a girl that had apparently never really cared about her. Santana really understood the appeal of starting over, she did. In a way she had done the same. She couldn't honestly say that she was still friends with her fellow Gleeks. She talked to Brittany because Brittany would always be a presence in her life. There was no navigating around that, no matter how much Santana tried. And she talked to Kurt, who she thought of as her little brother. But Puck, Tike, the Newbies, Matt, Lauren, Mercedes, Rachel? She talked to Rachel only when Rachel tried to pretend that they were the family she tried to mold them into in high school.

Despite giving lip service to the contrary, as soon as Rachel ran off to do that TV show in LA she disappeared. The show  _Roses and Thorns_ , a concept piece that seriously looked like it was rehashing the Rachel Berry/Quinn Fabray saga on screen, lasted only half a season. After that it was just commercials, and guest roles, but then there was a recurring character, and then Fox wanted to try again. She was on another show, now, and since her life was on the upswing, her contact was limited. Santana noticed that pattern; when Rachel was low, when things weren't going right for her, that's when she started talking about the Glee family this, and the Glee family that. Sometimes Santana stepped in and offered her her expertise, only to have it forgotten by Rachel as soon as she was back on the upswing. Then Santana was just back to being that jealous girl from high school.

Santana honest to goodness wasn't jealous of Rachel. She wasn't famous, but after years, (and years) of limited success, they had just now gotten to the point where they had consistent work every weekend, and even though she was technically homeless, she was now bringing home somewhere between $1,500 to $3,000 a week on average. She was making a living off of music, which was half-way to living out her dream. She wasn't' famous yet, but she had over 4,000 Facebook friends, triple that for followers on Twitter, and she got recognized sometimes, even if it was mostly just in New York. No one knew this, though, and Santana didn't tell them; she left them to their own imaginations to figure out what she was doing. She wasn't where Rachel was, but she wasn't jealous, either.

During those few times they talked, Rachel never seemed happy to her. She hated Los Angeles, but was too stubborn to admit that her hasty move to the West Coast was a mistake. She hated television and missed Broadway, but she had slammed that door shut soundly and it wasn't going to open back up again. She was jealous that Mercedes, so far, had turned out to be the most successful of them, because while Mercedes only had spotty success in America, once she went overseas they just ate her up. Her last three albums had all gone certified Platinum. Because Rachel was drawn to success she had attempted to 'rekindle' a friendship that had always only been spotty at best, but Mercedes wasn't interested, and for that Rachel considered Mercedes to have turned her back on her family.

Santana didn't blame Mercedes, or Quinn, or any of them for falling off. She had never really felt that same sense of comradery from her former teammates that the others did; she didn't feel like they would have her back if something major went down. Shortly after Rachel had moved to LA, Santana had the realization that her fellow Glee clubbers would always see her as that girl who tormented them in high school and nothing would change that. Even worse, she always seemed to fall back into being that girl, and Santana really didn't like that. So she gradually fell out of touch with the majority of them, and was unsurprised to discover that that was pretty much the case across the board.

So she didn't blame Quinn for wanting to reinvent herself, or to go away, or even have the desire to not be friends with anyone that knew about her past. She guessed that the thing that had bothered her was that Santana had never really thought of herself as being Quinn's past.

* * *

 

Santana blinked at the sight of the sun shining in her eyes and a noise that sounded a lot like someone trying to break in. The door opened a few seconds later, and Stacks stepped into the vehicle. He headed to the Keurig, but paused when he felt Santana's eyes on him. "Man, you sleep in here, Snix?"

Santana looked around orienting herself to the world. She gave a morning smile. "Yea, guess so."

Stacks got a hang dog look on his face. It was lucky that he was so pretty. "She wore you out so much that you didn't feel like crashing at the hotel?"

Santana rubbed her face. She was regretting passing out, now, because she wanted a nice, hot shower, but she definitely didn't feel up to schlepping it across town to take one. "No, I sent her packing before we could get into anything. I was too drunk to drive the Mini so I decided to just curl up here." They'd all spent at least one unaccompanied night in the beast so Stacks understood. "What time is it?"

"7:00."

11:48 was usually Santana's first attempt at getting up before noon. There wasn't much point to getting up that early, or worse, earlier. Unless they had an early gig, everyone else got up around 2:00 when they were on the road. "What're you doing up so freaking early?"

He grinned, handing her a fresh cup of coffee. "Not up; I haven't gone to bed yet."

Santana yawned, eyeing the cup. Santana wasn't really a coffee drinker, and if she drank the cup now, she was practically saying that she was going to be up for the day.

Santana's indecision was interrupted by Stacks' voice. "Oh, she's a hottie. What's her name?"

"Who?"

Stacks gestured to his computer screen. It had been hibernating but when Santana shifted it must have woke the thing up. Santana marveled that he didn't seem in the least concerned that she was using his stuff, when Santana would have nearly chewed off the guy's head for the same thing.

"Oh, her name's Quinn. She's…an old friend of mine."

"Sounds like you banged her." Stacks got closer, because Stacks liked pretty face. "She looks familiar," he said. For a few seconds he concentrated on trying to figure out why, but then he shrugged. He'd probably seen some picture of her and Quinn together at some point. "I'm just going to get some winks here, cause Jamie wants to leave by noon, and I'm not committing to sleep if I got to wake up in a few hours."

Stacks stretched out on the other bench. "Hey, be a sweetheart, and when you go to the hotel, grab my stuff will you? Thanks," he said without waiting for Santana to answer. He closed his eyes and was knocked out seconds later.

Santana pulled his laptop to her. She gave Quinn's hazel-eyed gaze one last look. Her mouse hovered over the friends checked box. She pulled up the scroll down bar. Like pulling off a Band-Aid, she scrolled down, and clicked on the unfriend button. There, no more trolling. Let Quinn stay where Quinn wanted to. Santana was tired of spending any amount of her time on the past.

Seconds later she got a notification. She had a new message.

 _Speaking of the Devil_ , she said, staring at the name of the sender in cold surprise. It looked like the past just didn't want to stay buried.

* * *


	3. Busy Work

An hour and ten minutes before the sun would break through the layer of fog that permanently surrounded the city, there was a brief knock before the front door was opened, and Mel Simple strode into the house as if he owned the place. He sighed at the sight of the girl outstretched on the couch, looking as if she had just barely made it onto it. He nudged her, praying to her god that she wasn't hung over.

"Frankie, come on sweetie, night time is over, time to rise and shine!"

Quinn grunted, rolling into the couch and away from the voice. "Ten more minutes," she grunted, trying her best to keep a hold of the dream that she'd been having.

"Up, up, up! It's a new day!"

"Go the fuck away!" she hissed.

Quinn felt herself crashing to the floor. Her eyes were open in a flash, and she was on her feet crawling. "What the hell?!" she shrieked.

"Up now means up now."

"You sound like my mother."

"Don't make me get the water, Frankie!"

"Are you trying to get fired?"

"Oh, please! There's no one alive who would do this job for the salary I take for it." Mel turned up his nose at her. "I'm impressed that you made it to the couch this time. Kudos on not passing out on the floor!"

"Fuck you. That was once." Or twice. The floor was sometimes very comfy. "I want my key back!"

"Um…no. See, as much  _fun_  as this job is, I actually want to keep it, and I can't keep it if you don't work, and you won't work if you don't get your cute little ass up off of that couch, because we've got a full day today, and it started…oh, about an hour ago. So get up."

"I don't want to," Quinn said petulantly.

"Well, that's just too bad."

Quinn sighed, she didn't like being strong armed. "10 more minutes, and I'm all yours."

"No, you lost 10 more minutes 6 months ago. I don't think you have grasped the concept of a punishment, darling," he condescend. "You acted like a child, and you're being punished like a child. You're not supposed to like it."

Quinn highly doubted that children drove cars. Or drank. She seemed to recall from her high school days that it was highly frowned upon when little human under the age of 21 were drinking. At least in this country. "I don't see what the big deal is! Everyone drinks."

"Yes, but not everyone gets behind the wheel and almost hits a child."

"Oh, can we get over that already? I  _feel_ absolutely terrible about that, but am I supposed to just beat myself up about it every second of the day? And she wasn't a child! 18 is legally an adult in every state but Alabama, 14 if they commit a crime. Let it go!"

"Unfortunately, I can't because I'm busy doing my best to get everybody else in this country forgetting about that."

Quinn doubted that because everybody in the country didn't know who she was. "The kid pulled out in front of me! I wasn't even at fault!"

"Yes, but you  _were_  drinking."

"Minor detail."

"Not when you have the damn can in your hand!  _Why_  didn't you just call a fucking taxi? Why didn't you call  _me_? Or that playboy of yours? What's the point of having him if you can't count on him to pick you up when you're plastered?"

"I wasn't plastered!"

"Honey, you were the poster girl for it."

"Okay, enough," Quinn snapped. "Look, I get it, Frankie fucked up. But let's get this straight, pittance or not, I do still pay you, so keep your snark to a minimum. I only allow you so much."

"Fine," Mel snapped with just as much attitude as Quinn. Day in and day out it amazed her that this guy wasn't gay. Actually, if she was being honest, it was half the reason why she kept him around. The other half was that he  _did_ work for considerably less (but then she wasn't considerably more) so it evened out. Quinn hadn't gotten to the point where she needed a personal assistant…well, Quinn hadn't really gotten to the point where she could actually  _afford_ a personal assistant, but he was a necessary expense. Also, and she hated to admit this, it was good to have someone who constantly looked out for her. She couldn't just disappear.

Quinn headed for the kitchen. "No, no kitchen. Upstairs, shower. Dress and wet hair, you know the drill."

Quinn actually screamed and stomped her feet, but still marched up the stairs to her bathroom. She came back down 15 minutes later with towel-dried hair, and wearing a light weight thermal and a pair of gray sweats, turned down at the waist. She missed her Cheerios workout clothes, but she had left them behind in a trashcan before she left Yale. Mel was in the kitchen, making a quick breakfast. Quinn descended on the cup of coffee that was warming in front of her, only grimacing slightly at it.  _Black_.

Mel turned around with a plate in his hand, looking Quinn up and down. "Frankie, maybe just  _consider_ going back to blonde. You looked so gorgeous in that Sam Smith video. Have you read the comments about it? They like you more than Sam."

"For the last time, Mel, I'm  _not_ going back to blonde."

 _Back to Black_ queued in her mind, which of course made her think of Santana, and she kind of sneered because Santana's dress on top of a dress combination hadn't been one of the girl's best.

"Just think of the roles that would just come flying at you. The world loves blondes, and you, you look absolutely breathtaking as one."

Quinn just walked out of the room instead of repeating herself. Since Quinn had walked out the door, Mel followed after her, locking up behind him as he left. Quinn slid into the passenger seat of Mel's Tribute, pulling down her sunglasses, and doing her best to curl up on the seat.  _Bring on the day_ , she mumbled into her coffee cup.

It was one of those days where there didn't seem to be enough time. They raced from one location to the next, but despite the bustle, the whole day seemed to go as slowly as possible. It was like time stopped and everyone was walking in slow motion. Before the sun was even up, she was sitting in a make-up chair being made to look like a rag doll. "I don't know why you're bothering," Quinn muttered petulantly, "We all know I'll be photo shopped and airbrushed over later."

"Yes, but this gives us less to have to correct," she was told.

Quinn eyed the pock marks hiding beneath the make up the woman was wearing, as well as the semi-crooked teeth and thought it was rich of her having the nerve to say anything about Quinn's imperfections. Her lips straightened into a line, and she breathed out through her nose to prevent herself from rolling her eyes.

Quinn tried to set her mind right for the day. Despite what the faceless strangers on message boards said about actors and actresses not doing much work, a photo shoot was a lot more than just standing around looking pretty. You weren't just taking a picture, you were acting for the camera. You were twisting your body in ways you would never naturally twist them in order to make your neck look longer, your waist to look thinner, your lips to look fuller. Unless you'd sat before a camera, you couldn't imagine how much effort it took to make yourself look effortless. You were holding your body above the ground in a way that didn't quite feel good, or you were standing in one spot until your feet ached, and you couldn't even so much as sneeze unless you wanted to do it again. (And after doing a shot a hundred times who in their right mind would want to do it again)? Every time you had a costume change, the lighting had to be adjusted, accessories exchanged, backgrounds reset. It wasn't like when you took pictures with your friends and only cared whether everyone was smiling.

Quinn for the life of her couldn't remember what the hell she was modeling, or posing for, and really, what did it matter? She thought about her modeling and acting gigs in terms of things. This photo shoot would pay for the repairs on her car, that music video would pay her court ordered fees, this minor $8,000 8-day guest shoot, would pay part of Mel's salary for the week, and everything chipped away at the 2 years' worth of student loan debt (and interest) she accrued while at Yale. Because she measured her time in the pay that she got from it, she actually enjoyed doing volunteer work because it was one of the few times in her day to day when people  _couldn't_ pay for her time.

She had an interview for a magazine right after the photo shoot, which meant that while the photographer was busy trying to get the perfect final picture, the journalist (and the term was used loosely), was doing his best to stay out of the photographer's way and was snapping questions at her in between scenes. She had been prepped for this interview, like just about every one she did. 90% of the interviews she did were exactly alike, and the answers were utter bullshit.

"What was going through your mind when you were doing the shoot?"

 _How much my fucking feet hurt, and how I want to go home, and how I really, really could use some alcohol right now. But not liquor because it's not yet noon, and I'm_ not _an alcoholic._

"I was thinking about how great it was to work with Sata Valjean. I've been an admirer of his work for ages." Blush. Giggle.

That wasn't a lie. Quinn was familiar with Sata's work, had followed him since she was about 13 years old, but was unimpressed that the once NatGeo rising star recipient was now photographing the likes of people like her.

"What's the process like?"

_Like being a dirty minded adult's blow up doll that he can contort anyway he wants for the sake of 'art'._

"It's really easy. This is like a little girl's best dream: I get to get dressed up, and look really pretty! Seriously, though, I enjoy every minute of it, and I'm just lucky I get to work with such professionals."

And then there were the flat out stupid questions, the 'boxer or brief' type questions in alternate variations, but thankfully this one was just about the shoot. It was just for the inside of the magazine. It was just a few blurbs, but that didn't take the interview from taking over an hour to conduct.

At the end the journalist shook Quinn's hand. "It's always a pleasure getting a chance to talk to you, Francesca."

"Thank you, Alton," I look forward to seeing you in the future."

Quinn always applauded herself whenever she remembered someone's name. It wasn't until she quit out on school that she finally learned how to compartmentalize names and faces so she could go back and pick up someone when she needed to, and thus seem interested in them.

After the shoot in Pasadena it was across town to Seal Beach to film a commercial for a product that Quinn forgot as soon as they were done with it five and a half hours later, she was interviewed again in the space of time that she was doing the commercial, and following immediately after she had another photo shoot, this one the kind that her agent, Angelika Dinkmeier liked.

The first one had flirted with the lines of sophistication and sexiness, the kind where some skin was showing in a completely tasteful way; the second photo shoot was the absolute epitome of a wasp depiction. She was getting roles more along the lines of simple stated elegance ever since the Sam Smith video. Before that she had more risqué shoots, which could be fun (especially the tastefully naughty librarian one she did) sometimes, but she actually preferred keeping as many clothes on as possible for her shoots because she hated the way the photographers leered at her made her uncomfortable. So far she hadn't shown  _much,_  just enough, enough to make her parents cringe but, not enough to be able to spank to, unless you didn't need much material to get off.

The day had been so busy, that there had been no time to eat, which saved Quinn the expediency of pretending that she wasn't actually hungry. She wasn't anorexic, at least in her mind she wasn't, she just didn't eat consistently. She only hit 2000 calories (in food) on the days that she spent hours working out, but most days she consumed at least 1000 calories, or tried to. When she was doing cheerleading, she had no problem keeping her figure so slim because of the two a day Cheerios practices, the jogging, and the dancing for Glee. She wasn't half as physically active now, so she had to make sacrifices somewhere; rarely was there enough time in the day for her to get in a several hours work out so the sacrifice came in what she consumed.

At close to 10 that night, when she was sitting in a studio chair at the radio station, waiting to be interviewed (her last engagement of the day), Mel placed a high fiber pita in her hand, as well as a nutrient shake. Quinn gave no complaint, eating slowly as she waited. This was her last thing for the day, and relatively harmless. It was an interview for a fundraiser for her charity, a foundation that she was a part of by virtue of Angelika slapping a list in front of her, and her finger falling down on this one. She was surprised when she lifted her finger and saw her new charity of choice was Habitat for Humanity, but she wasn't disappointed. She liked working with Habitat. She even helped out on builds when she had space in the schedule to do so.

She left the radio station in a really good mood, only to return back to her empty house. Her small, 1,100 sq. ft. two story detached house had a very quiet elegance to it, midway between modern and classical. Judy would probably complain endlessly about her choice in furnishings, but Quinn didn't care. Judy was never likely to see it, and Quinn was tired of worrying about what anyone else thought. She was living her life, her way. Lucy was who she'd been born to be, Quinn was who she thought the world wanted her to be. Frankie was something in between the two women; she was who Lucy and Quinn both wanted to be. Approachable, confident, in charge, lovely, friendly, and engaging.

Frankie wanted black, blue, and gold in her bedroom set, so she had it and ignored the voice of her mother saying that black was too dark a color to be in a bedroom (Quinn sometimes wondered if she wasn't just talking about the color). Frankie liked to go to antique shops, and thrift shops, and she liked to bring up unique items and craft them to work into her environment. Her single most favorite item that she had was an old, rescued green upright piano that she'd gotten at a thrift store for $54.00 after three days working six hours each day. It was out of tune and in need of repairs. The wheels stuck, it needed to be thoroughly cleaned, Quinn was sure there was a dead body or two hidden inside, it had nicks in it, in short it was absolutely perfect. She named it Musetta the Green Lean Mean Music Making Machine, and restoring it became a favorite pass time of hers. It had a calming effect on her.

She sat down at Musetta and let her fingers rest against her keys. Quinn hated living alone. At Yale she had loved her roommate for the one simple fact that she kept Quinn from being alone. Her roommate had been a girl named Fabian; she was a light skinned, black girl, who was even farther from home, but didn't seem to mind too much. She had been a cheerleader, too, and sang in the choir (school, not church, she was a deist). She was the kind of girl who had a word a day calendar, who did crosswords and Sudoku, who sang along with television jingles when Quinn watched TV, but didn't actually watch television by herself. She had one of those cheerful personalities that Quinn thought she would find annoying, like Brittany's, but oddly she didn't.

She liked Fabian, very much. Fabian had only been to New Haven once prior to her freshman year, so she knew nothing and no one, but unlike Quinn who wanted to hide away, she wanted to explore. Week days caught her buried in the books, or with her study groups, but on the weekends, she wanted to go everywhere, and she dragged Quinn along. It was because of Fabian that she ended up in her secret sorority, and had ended up as 'besties' with half of the people she knew at Yale. They had all been classmates, study buddies, or were a part of the same student organizations that Fabian was a member of, though she admitted to only being casual associates with the vast majority of them. Quinn wondered why that was until one of her sorority sisters flat out asked Quinn why she hung out with Fabian so much, which caused Quinn to remember how she had originally illogically been uncomfortable about she and Fabian rooming together when they were first introduced.

It wasn't until after they slept together that Quinn even discovered that she had been Fabian's first.

It took Quinn a minute to realize that she was playing; that her fingers had started moving without her meaning to. Two instruments reminded Quinn of the feel of a woman; the cello was one of them, the piano the other, for two separate reasons. Once she realized and accepted that she liked girls as well as guys (though admittedly she liked being with women more), she wondered if she had stuck with the piano, even though she was not very good at it, for that reason alone. Because the way her fingers stroked against the (faux) ivory reminded her of other strokes.

Quinn's fingers moved, of their own accord, as did her thoughts, shifting to the place she was trying not to let it go.

_"You're dating Finn?" Quinn hid behind the open door of her locker. She took her time exchanging out her books. "Finn?" was repeated. "Hudson?"_

_Quinn finally worked up the courage to glance around the locker door. She nodded._

_"Why didn't you tell me?"_

_"Because I knew you wouldn't like it."_

_"How long?"_

_Quinn felt kind of sick. She wanted to just go away. No, she didn't feel sick, she felt guilty, and rightly so._

_"A few weeks now."_

_"And were you ever going to tell_ me? _I had to find out from Jacob!"_

_"I'm sorry," Quinn said regretfully. And she was. She was sorry that she was dating Finn, she was sorry that she didn't have the courage to tell her, she was sorry that she'd found out from Jacob, but she wasn't going to do anything about it. She couldn't._

_Their voices were lowered to practically a whisper. "What about_ us?"

_"There isn't an 'us'!" Quinn's voice dropped even lower. "There can't be an 'us'. It's all good for you, you have two gay dads. They'd probably throw you a rainbow coming out party; my parents would throw me out. They would cut me off. You don't have a reputation to worry about, I do."_

_Quinn's voice and expression softened at the facial expression of the girl in front of her. "Things will be different, once we graduate, I promise." It was a lie and they both knew it. After graduation, there was another four more years of being her daddy's perfect little girl if she expected him to pay for her college. "Then there can be an us. Until then, I'm dating Finn Hudson."_

_Quinn saw approaching footsteps, and she slammed her locker shut, her face disappearing behind a hard mask. Her tone of voice changed as well. "Okay, listen, Treasure Trail. Just because we're working on an assignment for English, doesn't mean you get to come chasing after me in the hall. Get lost!"_

_Quinn felt like a world class bitch as Rachel took off. Santana leaned against Quinn's neighbor's locker, Brittany beside her. "Harsh, Fabray," Santana remarked. "Why're you always so mean to that girl? I mean, yeah she's lame, but she's kind of cute,"_

_"She's not fucking cute, she's a troll!"_

_"Brittany likes her,"_

_"She's really fun, Q," Brittany interjected. "She sings really pretty, too."_

_"And she's got an amazing pair of legs."_

_Quinn scowled. "Are you trying to date her, Santana? Your queer's showing, you might want to cover that up."_

_Santana flushed, but her lips tightened. "My queer, Q? Me and Britts macking at parties every now and then doesn't make me queer. It makes me irresistible. You would know since I see you checking me out at cheer practice, though I can't blame you. I_ am _the hottest bitch up in this place."_

_Quinn blushed bright red. "Eww…you wish. Like I would check you out! What you and Brittany do, that's not my business, but if you don't want everyone thinking you're as queer as Black Berry and Hidden Berry, than I wouldn't go around saying that I think queer junior and her fugly grandma sweaters is cute. Now if you'll excuse me, it seems like someone here's forgetting her place, and could stand to use a reminder. Do you need one as well?"_

_Santana chewed down on her lip, but she defiantly turned to Britt. "Remember when she_ used _to be fun? Q, do the world a favor and just get laid already."_

_They pushed away from the lockers leaving Quinn behind. Quinn ground down on her teeth because ever since Brittany, Santana was always leaving her behind. It was like she was the third wheel even though she was the one that was in charge. Quinn felt eyes on her, and she turned in time to see a pair of wide brown eyes disappearing around the corner._

Quinn knew people. People who had nice, well-adjusted childhoods, or people who had crappy high school experiences, and they didn't keep them around. They didn't haunt them. They didn't relive every moment or, like Quinn, didn't drown them in alcohol. Or would have, if there was any in her house, but no. Mel had gone through the entire house, alcoholic-aware style, looking for package bottles everywhere, in every closet, in every drawer, in the light fixtures; as if Quinn was an alcoholic. She might enjoy a drink or two, but she wasn't that.

She knew, too, that she could just go to the closest liquor store and pick one up, but she didn't want to move from where she was right now, and no body that was on her speed dial would bring her alcohol or knew that she didn't have a problem. The DUI and reckless driving, that was pretty well hushed up. She just didn't want to have to explain to someone why she wanted them to bring her booze.

Her hands pressed down against keys, tunelessly playing, until a sudden thought occurred to her. Mel had gone through the entire house, but…Quinn stood up, carefully moving the bench backwards. Her heart racing, she carefully pulled the piano away from the wall, and there, safely hidden away from Mel's scourge was a bottle of a golden amber-colored liquid that looked a lot like salvation.

Quinn smiled at her oldest friend, and lifted it up off of the ground, pushing the piano back into place before she carried the bottle over to the couch. Her mouth watered at the thought of drinking it, and her hand independently moved to twist off the cap, but she didn't open it.

Quinn lay there holding the bottle of liquid in her hand, listening to it swish every time she moved even slightly, so that every time she inhaled, there was that sound beckoning to her. Usually when Quinn felt this lonely, that was when she started dating someone new. She currently had a dedicated fuck buddy. Heath. If she called him up, he'd probably be over in 20 minutes. But she didn't want to fuck, she wanted actual companionship. She had associates out here that she would call friends to appease them, and there were people that she genuinely liked, but she had yet to just mesh seamlessly with anyone. Quinn had never quite been good at friendships.

She was lonely enough to contemplate making a phone call. It was the call to the one person in the world that she knew would always pick up the phone. That she knew if she said 'come', would fly across the country, moaning and groaning the whole time, and would bitch her out when she got there, and possibly even slap her, but would still come. It was the one thing that Quinn knew to the depths of her soul; she didn't doubt it. She knew that even though she had left them, without even so much of a good-bye that they would still be there for her because it was the only person from her past life she even kept the slightest bit of contact with; correction, it was the only person that she actually bothered to alert to the fact that she was still alive.

She opened her Facebook page up. It had remained unchanged for six years, depicting a girl that quite frankly didn't even still exist anymore. Quinn at Yale was no different really than Quinn at McKinley, except an older version of her high school self. With the slightest nudge from Fabian, she had found it remarkably easy to fit in at Yale. It was a school that was looking exactly for her type. She didn't have a trust fund, and she didn't come from old family, either, but she fit the look. She had that old world grace that everyone pretended they didn't want, but soaked up as if beauty itself actually made good company.

Quinn typed out Santana's name, unsurprised to find out that they were no longer friends. At the sight of the add friend button, however, Quinn was back to wondering what was going on in Santana's life. She never looked. She didn't search through any of her photos, she didn't read anything on her wall; she bypassed all the alerts. It wasn't will power so much as the fact that Santana had put Quinn on a block list so she  _couldn't_ see any of it. Quinn knew that she was on a block list because Santana updated her Facebook constantly, and yet Quinn never got any notice of anything, not even a reminder that it was Santana's birthday.

Quinn opened the message browser, her fingers resting on top of the keyboard for 20 minutes before she actually composed a message.  _Santana. I talked to a girl a few days ago who reminded me of you. Would you hate me if I said that I don't think of you all that often? That it's been more than a year? I don't really want to know how you're doing right now, either, I just want you to be okay. What's wrong? Do you remember when people used to say 'it gets better'? Has it gotten better yet? For me either._

She didn't send it. She never did. Instead she re-added Santana as a friend. It was a dance they did. It was the only form of 'communication' that they had had in the past six years. Every so often Santana would unfriend her, (Quinn imaged when Santana was feeling down), or Quinn would unfriend her, (she  _knew_  it was when  _she_  was feeling down), and once discovered they would re-add each other, and the other always accepted the friend request. That was it. Quinn wasn't quite sure why she kept up this minor correspondence, but she felt that after all they had gone through together, she deserved at least that.

She only had a few minutes wait before Santana accepted the request, which piqued Quinn's interest because what was Santana doing up this late? It was now midnight here, which made it 3:00 in the morning in New York. On a Saturday night. The sudden urge to talk to Santana was about as strong as the one to drink the contents of the bottle still sitting on her chest.  _Aren't we too old to still be spending the night partying?_ she wondered, trying to will the words 3,000 miles away to Santana. A part of Quinn believed that Santana actually heard her thoughts the same way she believed that Santana actually got the messages she never sent.

It was none of her business, she had no right to know, but she wondered if Santana stayed up this late every night, or every weekend. She wondered if she took home random girls, or if she figured out how to have a relationship with someone that wasn't Brittany. She wanted to know if she had ever gone back to college, if she graduated, if she was happy. If she still talked to Rachel…

Quinn sighed, standing up unsteadily. She stumbled her way into the kitchen to pour the alcohol down the drain. She herself was drained. It had been a long day, and she just wanted to crash on the couch. There really was nothing stopping her from doing just that. Tomorrow was Sunday. All she had on her schedule was church, which Mel wouldn't wake up for, a short afternoon photo shoot, and her community service. She could fall asleep on her couch again without risk of discovery, but she forced herself upstairs to her room, feeling it was more civilized. She pulled herself beneath the covers, remembering that there was something special about Sunday, something to look forward to, but she couldn't really remember what it was.

And then she remembered:  _I'm Nobody! Who are you? Are you Nobody too? Then there's a pair of us! Don't tell! They'd advertise, you know! How dreary, to be, Somebody! How public like a Frog, to tell one's name, the livelong June, to an admiring bog!_

* * *

**A/N: Final poem is _I am Nobody_  by Emily Dickinson.**


	4. It All Adds Up

Today started at 2236. Quinn counted in her head as she descended. 2236, 2237, 2238, 2239, stopping at 2262 when she hit the bottom step. Numbers fascinated Quinn, each one added up to something even if it took a little time to do so. Her whole life was governed by numbers and coincidences. She had 234 more steps to go before she was done with this room, to equal a grand total of 2,496 steps (not counting the 52 from the interview), which was, coincidentally enough, nearly exactly how many hours Quinn had gone without drinking prior to the drink that she'd had that caused the accident that had landed her in this place in the first place. Quinn thought that the whole thing had a certain symmetry to it.

Tonight, there were far more 'volunteers' at the center then there had been on Wednesday, but then Quinn was early, so a lot of the moderators would be packing up in a matter of minutes. "Hey, Franks!" Jolie, a platinum blonde woman of about 30 called excitedly, waving in Quinn's direction when her feet touched ground. Quinn smiled, gliding across the room to Jolie's station. She let her hands rest on the woman's shoulders, happy to see that Jolie wasn't on the phone, but in a chat session. She placed a kiss on her cheek. "Hey, Jolly," she said in greeting. "Anything exciting happening?"

Quinn's hands moved to massage the tension out of Jolie's shoulders, and the woman leaned back into the embrace, murmuring her appreciation. Jolie, Joie when she was still an actress, had seen her world come crashing down 6 years ago because of her drug addiction. She was clean five years now, (she had a minor relapse in the beginning) but acting was no longer an open avenue for her. She sporadically volunteered at the center whenever she felt old urges spring up. Jolie was Quinn's Brittany. She even had blue eyes.

"Things are actually good," Jolie said with a bright smile. "We got a new client through a referral, and it looks like things are about to really start picking up."

"That's great!"

Jolie nodded. "After all this time, it's nice to see things on the upswing. I was thinking about having a barbecue next Saturday to celebrate. Will you come?"

Quinn put a finger to her lips. "You know, I think I might be free. Count me on the list."

"Awesome! Why are you here so early?"

Quinn shrugged casually. "I was finished early, so I thought I'd come in." So it was a lie, but intention didn't matter if good came out of your actions, right? Jolie nodded. Quinn gave her shoulders one last squeeze, before she sat down in her seat. As she signed in she realized that this was the first time in nearly six months that she had gotten here early. Some might confuse this with actually getting into the spirit of volunteering. Quinn knew it was because she was anxious about getting the chance to talk to Nohbdy again, and she didn't want to miss her, if she did come back onto the site.

She pulled the manual to her, signed into the terminal, pulled out a book, and waited for her first person of the night to contact her. It was 9:40, 20 minutes to her shift.

Both her phone and her chat session remained empty. Quinn couldn't concentrate on the book, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, so she listened to the conversations that surrounded her. On most, the talk was about normal things, fashion, clothes, celebrities; one was about old friends and Quinn was reminded that she needed to call up Cindy when she woke up tomorrow. Quinn had reminders set to remind her to call which friend and when written down in her address book, so she could remember to keep her relationships alive. Otherwise she might go too much time without talking to people she was supposed to keep in her life. Luckily, Cindy required only a monthly conversation.

Cindy was her Tina. She was slightly younger than Quinn, round faced, loved to dye her hair, and had an 'alternative' dressing style. When Quinn first moved out to LA, she was insistent on making friends, and doing so without anyone else pointing her in the direction of who she should be friends with. Since making friends was a new experience for her, she found herself making friends with people who reminded her, oddly, of the people that she'd left behind. She matched race and personality up as well as she could (her new Mercedes was nearly the same skin color as Mercedes, but was way skinnier. Her Artie was in a wheelchair and wore glasses, but he was a red head, her Zizes, Ramona, lacked the confidence Lauren had, but was the same size, etc). At first she didn't realize what she was doing, and then once she did, she figured she should see it through to the end. It wasn't as difficult, or as surprising, as one might imagine; there were a lot of people in LA, and she had done the same thing her senior year in high school with the skanks, and there had been far fewer people to choose from then. So she assembled her Glee kids look-alikes with very little trouble, but she never hung out with them together, because that would have seemed too weird. Especially if a picture was taken and the real Glee kids actually saw it.

The only two missing from her collection had been Brittany, who she had finally found with Jolie, and Rachel, who she didn't try to find at all. She actually stumbled across Jolie after she had stopped trying to create a new new New Directions, but she still thought of her as her Brittany. Oh, and Santana. She had never found someone to make an adequate Santana.

Quinn checked the time again. 9:43. Her phone rang. She set a smile on her face. "Thank you for calling the Lighthouse, this is Emily, let's chat!"  
The phone went dead in her ear. That happened at least once a night, usually by someone who either dialed the wrong number, or someone who pretended to dial the wrong number.

She got a chat request a few minutes later and connected it, but left her terminal open so she would have another window open for Nohbdy. Quinn thought about that statement, and ended up laughing. She hoped that Polyphemus at least had a good laugh later about losing nobody.

Quinn felt a tap on her shoulder, and she looked up. It was Tishawna with her clipboard, and a smile on her face, obviously pleasantly pleased to see Quinn. Quinn smiled back at her, and Tishawna moved down the line. The supervisors had their own private office, but Tishawna still sat at a terminal out here with the rest of them. Quinn wondered about her back story, if this had once been her sentence, and she just never left.

Quinn got so caught up in chatting with her person, Nicholai-who was going on about vintage cars (he liked the 1963 Maserati Series II Sebring Convertible, Quinn preferred the AC Frua), that she forgot to keep her eye on the clock. 9:59. 10:00 had just crept up on her. It felt like she held her breath until the numbers changed 1…0…0…0. 10:00. Or 8 in binary. Her cursor blinked in the empty window, taunting her.

Nicolai: Hands down, though, nothing beats the 1955 Vette.

Quinn couldn't take her eye off of the clock. 1…0…0…1 10:01 or 9 (in binary).

_**Emily:** _ _If you're going to cheat then, sure. Go with the original. I thought you wanted creative. And I like the 1961 'Vette so much better. Looks more like a woman._

Her hazel eyes flickered back to the counter. 10:02. Nohbdy wasn't going to get on. At 10:05 Quinn got notification of a chat request.

_**Moderator** _ _: Hello. This is the Lighthouse. My name is Emily. How are you?_

_**User:** _ _is that your programmed response?_

_**Emily:** _ _No, just my response to you._

Quinn typed out a message to her car enthusiast.

_**User:** _ _How do you know that it's me?_

_**Emily:** _ _How do you know that it's not?_

_**User:** _ _Ha ha, I like you Emsie. I just got finished watching 'Blue is the Warmest Color'. Have you seen it?_

_**Emily:** _ _No. Should I watch it? Did you like it?_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _I didn't actually watch it._

_**Emily:** _ _Then why did you say that you did?_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Because you said you were a lesbian. I was trying to connect with you, "on your level"._

_**Emily:** _ _Aren't you a lesbian? And I never said that I was a lesbian._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _But you have gotten with the ladies, right?_

_**Emily:** _ _When the mood strikes me. I think the term for that is bi._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _I think the term for that is gross. J/K. Love is a river, and there are some who go with the flow, and others who veer off in the estuaries, or chart their own course._

_**Emily:** _ _That's…poetic._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _I can have a way with words sometime. You should see what I do with Oh…God…and harder. I make them sound like a symphony._

Quinn reread those words, and decided to ignore them.

_**Emily:** _ _Do you like poetry?_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Depends on the poem._

_**Emily:** _ _Do you believe in fate?_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Depends on the fate._

_**Emily:** _ _You're a regular smart ass, aren't you?_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Yep. Better than an irregular one. I was that, once, but yogurt fixed that right up. I prefer Chobani, what about you?_

_…_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Oikos, then? What's fate?_

_**Emily:** _ _You said you're Nohbdy , and I'm Emily, and Emily Dickinson has a poem about Nohbdy._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Emily Dickinson wrote a poem about nobody? That's weird, why would you write a poem about nobody? Wait…who's Emily Dickinson?_

_**Emily:** _ _You're kidding, right?_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Tut, tut. Not every body goes to college, not every body grows up like you did, not every body has your knowledge, no need to treat me like a kid…hmmm…nah, I don't like it. I was trying to make you a poem, but didn't work. So are you nobody, too, then?_

_**Emily:** _ _Sometimes I feel like that. Quinn admitted openly._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _That's sad. I'm not really Nohbdy, I'm just pretending so I can get away. I'm beginning to think that you didn't read the Odyssey._

_**Emily:** _ _Say Odysseus._

_…_

Quinn imagined the girl (?) saying Odysseus out loud, even knowing that that's probably not what Quinn wanted.

_**Emily:** _ _Type it._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Bossy._

_**Emily:** _ _You have no idea._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Hmm…I can imagine. Odysseus._

_**Emily:** _ _You're not drunk._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Not tonight._

_**Emily:** _ _So you're like this sober, too?_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _I was born without a filter._

_**Emily:** _ _I'm beginning to see that._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Should I be drunk?_

_**Emily:** _ _It's just that it's late, and you're still up._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _I work nights, and you're up, too._

_**Emily:** _ _I'm three hours behind you, and just because the court orders community service doesn't mean that I automatically have time in my schedule to carry it out. I get pretty busy during the day; this was just the time I had available._

As she typed the words Quinn realized that she had other reasons for choosing the shift that she did. She'd chosen the drunken hours of the morning for a reason. She was living vicariously through the people that called in since she couldn't have a drink herself.

_**Nohbdy:** _ _But you don't have a 9 to 5?_

_**Emily:** _ _If I worked a 9 to 5 I'd be working about 20 fewer hours every week."_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _When do you sleep?_

_**Emily:** _ _Lol, whenever I can. I really like my 3 p.m. power naps._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Do you know why I'm always up at night?_

_**Emily:** _ _No clue._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _I'm a vampire._

_…_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _You know, one of the undead? I can't go out in the day time. The sun burns my skin. I'm one of the last of the American vampires. Sometimes it gets lonely._

_**Emily:** _ _Umm…_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Thank you for letting me share that with you. I'm not really supposed to talk about it with anyone._

_Quinn thought very carefully about what she was going to respond. She went with safe._

_**Emily:** _ _I'm sorry you get lonely sometimes._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _You're really sitting there thinking that I think I'm a vampire, aren't you? I was just shitting you._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Shit, your filter really sucks. I'm not really one of the undead._

_**Emily:** _ _You sure you're not drunk._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Nope, stone sober._

_**Emily:** _ _Me, too._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _You sound like you resent that._

_**Emily:** _ _I 'sound' like something? That's strange. We're talking through chat."_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Smart alec._

_**Emily:** _ _My name's Emily, not Alec._

_…_

_**Emily:** _ _Annoying, isn't it?"_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _I just want to say that whoever trained you for this, should be fired._

_Quinn laughed so hard that she got looks from her coworkers._

_**Emily:** _ _Are you saying that I suck at my job._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Pretty much._

_**Emily:** _ _Eh…well you get what you pay for._

_…_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _I think I like you. You're fun._

_**Emily:** _ _Ummm…thanks._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Don't pretend you're not flattered. People flock for my attention. Feel privileged._

_**Emily:** _ _I bask in the waves of your approval._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Of course you do. You're surprising._

Quinn found this an odd statement coming from the person she was talking to. 'She' was nothing but a surprise.

_**Nohbdy:** _ _It's refreshing. Most people don't surprise me._

_**Emily:** _ _And why is that?_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Don't know. I think God only had a template for like 20 personalities, so everyone's just a mix of those 20, and most aren't even blended all that well._

_**Emily:** _ _Only 20, huh? So you don't think that there's any originals out there?_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Think about it. There's 7 billion plus people out there. Even if you're one in a million that means that there are 7, 243 people out there that are just like you._

_**Emily:** _ _And yet we all like to pretend that we're so different from everyone else._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Because life would be easier if we didn't have to go through it alone, and who wants easy?_

_**Emily:** _ _Is that what it is? You are wise beyond your years. How many years are you anyway?_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _More than 2, less than 80._

_**Emily:** _ _Me too._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _We have something in common! We should celebrate? Dinner at my place. You bring the wine, I'll bring the naked._

_**Emily:** _ _Do you make so many sex jokes because your sex life lacks, or because sex is always on your mind?_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _The only thing lacking in my sex life is you, babe._

_**Emily:** _ _You're right. With lines like that, how can you not be bringing home the ladies?_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Damned right._

_**Emily:** _ _You don't have to do that, here, you know. This is a judgment free space._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Horseshit. There's no such thing as judgment free space. We are humans, we judge, and you have judged me, and I have judged you, the only thing is, I'm never wrong. I'm close to perfect._

_**Emily:** _ _I'm just saying. That if you want to talk for real, you can do that, too. We don't know each other, we're never going to meet, so you don't have to worry about impressing me._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Wow, you think highly of yourself, don't you?_

_**Emily:** _ _Nope, just letting you know that you can be yourself. I won't make you feel too bad about it._

Quinn wouldn't have said that with any other contact, but this girl (?) was different.

_**Nohbdy:** _ _I will keep that in mind._

_**Emily:** _ _So how about maybe a name?_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Can't do that._

_**Emily:** _ _Why not?_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _B/c you haven't told me yours, yet._

_**Emily:** _ _It's Emily._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _No, it's not. Nobody is actually named Emily, scientific fact, and if it was, you would have said something about me calling you Emsie, or you would have gone into some anecdote about how your best friend Heather used to call you Emily, because you tend to go on._

_**Emily:** _ _I tend to go on?_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _See, you admitted it. Is your name Emily?_

_**Emily:** _ _For now it is._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _What is it when you're not Emily?_

_**Emily:** _ _It's whatever you want it to be._

_It struck her how true that statement kind of was. Her whole life was her acting like she was somebody else, usually someone other people wanted her to be._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _I see what you did there. Clever girl. Tell you what, I'll give you 10 chances to guess my name. On the off chance you hit it, I'll tell you. And as an added bonus, I'll tell you what I'm wearing right now. Hint: It's not much._

It actually took every ounce of restraint in her not to type the name 'Santana'. She knew the girl wasn't actually Santana, but the idea of it was just so irresistible. She didn't want to be back in Lima, or even on the East Coast at all, but from time to time she did miss what they had all shared. Out of home, the only thing she missed more than Rachel was her, and really she missed Santana somewhat more; the two of them had fewer bad memories…well, they had ended things on a better note. Somewhat.

_**Emily:** _ _Why all the clock and dagger?_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _You mean, what is in a name?_

Quinn grimaced. An annoying poet who quoted Shakespeare and was consistently horny. It made her heart ache in a good way.

_**Emily:** _ _Are you worried that I'll Facebook you or something if you tell me your name?_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Honestly?_

_**Emily:** _ _Sure._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _I like the idea of being anonymous. I like the idea of you not knowing who I am, or anything about me._

_**Emily:** _ _Why?_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Why else? We wear the mask that grins and lies. It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes. This debt we pay to human guile, with torn and bleeding hearts we smile, and mouth with myriad subtleties. Why should the world be over-wise, in counting all our tears and sighs? Nay, let them only see us while, we wear the mask, we smile, but, O great Christ, our cries. To thee from tortured souls arise. We sing, but oh the clay is vile. Beneath our feet, and long the mile. But let the world dream otherwise. We wear the mask!_

_…_

Quinn read it through again, slower this time, taking in every word, savoring them. It was a sad poem, no doubt, but it resonated somewhere deep down inside of her. She thought about the man different faces she put on on a daily basis.

_**Emily:** _ _That's…strangely apropos. Did you write that?_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _No, but it's mine. I Columbused it._

_**Emily:** _ _You what?_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _I discovered it and have thus claimed it as mine._

_**Emily:** _ _So who wrote it?_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Paul Laurence Dunbar._

_**Emily:** _ _Never heard of him._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Have you ever heard of a book called "I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings?"_

_**Emily:** _ _I thought…didn't that woman who recently died write that? I can't remember her name._

_…_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Maya Angelou._

_**Emily:** _ _Her. I thought she wrote that book._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _She did. Her autobiography. But Paul wrote "Sympathy", which is a poem about understanding feeling caged. Maybe I should have shared that with you instead, but I don't know that one off of the top of my head. How about you look it up? That's going to be your homework._

_**Emily:** _ _You're giving me homework?_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Yep. Idle minds are the devil's playground. I'm trying to reclaim yours._

_**Emily:** _ _Are you religious._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _You mean am I Christian?_

_**Emily:** _ _That's not what I asked._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _But that's what you meant? 67% of the world's population practices a religion other than Christianity, and yet there's this assumption that Christianity = religious. Yes, I'm religious. I worship Krishnu and Tu Er Shen._

_**Emily:** _ _Que? Who is Tu Er Shen? What is Tu Er Shen?_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _What is Jeopardy? Tu Er Shen is a homoerotic Chinese deity who answers the prayers of gay men. He has served me well._

_**Emily:** _ _Er…are you a man now?_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _No, but I've been hoping that he looks favorably on all homos, not just the men. Why did you ask me if I was religious? Isn't that one of the three things you're not supposed to discuss with people?_

_**Emily:** _ _Did it offend you? You mentioned that you were trying to reclaim my soul._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Oh._

_**Emily:** _ _I did offend you, didn't I?_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Gay chick…Christianity hasn't been very kind to me._

_**Emily:** _ _Christians haven't, Christianity is merely a vehicle._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _So, you're religious in the Christian since, huh?_

_**Emily:** _ _Actually…no. I go to church on Sundays, and when I'm feeling particular ambitious, I'll occasion a Wednesday too, but no._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Then why go?_

_**Emily:** _ _Habit. Sense of belonging. It's a big world out here; church makes it a little smaller. I come from a religious family…and prayer settles me a little._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Do you think there's anyone listening on the other side?_

_**Emily:** _ _I don't know. I honestly don't._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _I do._

_**Emily:** _ _You know that there's someone on the other side?_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Gotta be. I'm pretty damn near close to perfect, and I'm pretty sure that I can walk on water, so that means that there's a God, right?_

_…_

Quinn couldn't really figure out if she had just fallen in love or just the world's weirdest caller in existence, though she was pretty close to leaning towards the first one. So what if she was weird, she was entertaining, and definitely made time pass. Quinn could see the light at the end of the tunnel for the first time since she walked down those stairs.

_**Nohbdy:** _ _You can laugh, I won't hold it against you._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Still there, Emsie?_

_**Emily:** _ _You don't have to worry about me prematurely ending the chat session. The stated mission of this call center is to provide an encouraging ear for those who need someone to listen, so technically you could say anything you want, and I'd still respond, so you shouldn't worry that I'm going to end the chat session._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Anything?_

_**Emily:** _ _We are allowed to end the sessions if the user talks about things of a sexually explicit nature if it makes us uncomfortable._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Oh, you know me so well._

_Quinn was fairly certain that she didn't know this person at all._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _I'm not suicidal, if that's what you are worrying about._

_**Emily:** _ _Well good. This isn't a suicide hotline._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _I just wanted you to know that. 3:00 is a lonely hour for me, and there was a QR code on the poster. I was kind of hoping that this was for a sex hotline. I'm horny at 3:00 a.m. too._

_**Emily:** _ _It's not a sex hotline._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _I noticed._

_**Emily:** _ _Why'd you sign back in?_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _You seemed like you needed me._

_**Emily:** _ _Why would I need you?_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Because two lost souls need each other sometimes. Fate, as you said. I'm going to tell you a story. You ready?_

_**Emily:** _ _I have a choice?_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Nope. This guy decides to visit his girlfriend one morning, so he calls out of work, and heads over to her apartment in the Village, turning off his cell phone, the TV, and the radio so that he can concentrate on making sweet love to her all morning long. Around 11 o'clock he turns on his phone, and sees that he has like a kabillion missed calls._

_**Emily:** _ _How many is a kabillion?_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _You're messing up the story._

_**Emily:** _ _Sorry, I just wanted clarification._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _N E WAYZ! He sees that he has a heck of a lot of missed calls. His phone starts to ring and he answers it. It's his wife. "I've been trying to call you for over two hours! I've been worried sick about you! Are you OK?!" He answered calmly that he was fine. The wife then asked, "Where are you?"  
The guy said, "Where do you think I am? I'm in my office!" The wife then responds, "Turn on the TV." Agitated, he hangs up, but he does like his wife commands._

_**Emily:** _ _And so what happened?_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _It was September 11th and he worked on the 103rd floor of the WTC._

_Saved from death by adultery, that was a new one._

_**Emily:** _ _That's one lucky bastard._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _You would think. So realizing that his wife pretty much has solid proof that he's cheating, he frantically gets in his car, and heads back towards home, and ends up getting into a car accident dying instantly._

_…_

_**Emily:** _ _I don't get it._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _He was only still alive because he was cheating on his wife, but then he gets in a car accident and dies anyway._

_**Emily:** _ _Yeah, but I don't get its importance to our conversation._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Oh! I forgot the moral. Okay, so if I stopped the story after I told you that he worked at the WTC, then it's a 'I'm only still alive because I cheated on my wife, but now she's going to make me wish I was dead story, which is just ironic. But because I added that bit about him dying anyway, it changes the story. Moral: Sometimes fate works in your favor, and sometimes both fate and karma make you their bitch._

_…_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _I guess I didn't have a point. I just like telling that story, though. Especially when someone thinks I'm cheating._

_**Emily:** _ _Do you cheat a lot?_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _You have to be in a relationship to cheat. It was just a joke._

_**Emily:** _ _Is it true? The story?_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Doubtful. If a guy didn't show up for work on that day, the FBI would have probably been at his girlfriend's door before he could have even pulled his pants up._

_**Emily:** _ _Nice visual image there._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Not for me. I prefer the pants to be down. Like on the floor. Are you wearing pants?_

_**Emily:** _ _No, they let me show up for work with nothing on at all._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Hot._

Wanky _, Quinn corrected. She gave the slightest of sighs. Well that one word shattered the belief that she was somehow talking to Santana Lopez. She mentally chided herself. There were more than 365 million people in this country, what were the odds of that actually happening?_

_**Emily:** _ _Vivienne?_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Do I strike you as a Vivienne? I could be a Vivienne. I've never met a Vivienne that was ugly._

_**Emily:** _ _Have you ever met any Vivienne's?_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _No, but I imagine that they all have black hair, and green eyes. Oh, and a huge rack. And a smoky voice. I have this thing about smoky voices. Do you smoke?_

_**Emily:** _ _From time to time._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Gross. Do you smoke weed?_

_**Emily:** _ _I have._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Done anything harder?_

_**Emily:** _ _I plead the fifth. You?_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _I work at night, what do you think?_

_**Emily:** _ _I think that's a no, then. Jasmine?_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _You must think I'm hot. And not white._

_**Emily:** _ _What makes you say that?_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Have you ever met a white Jasmine? Ooh, that sounds like that'd make a good fragrance line. "White Jasmine". I should look into that._

_**Emily:** _ _Alike._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Alike?_

_**Emily:** _ _Pronounced uh lee kay._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _The Deal or No Deal model? I can dig it. That's 3. 7 more to go._

_**Emily:** _ _Samantha? Laura/Laruen? Ashley, Priya! Rebecca?_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _What made you say that name?_

_**Emily:** _ _Which one? Rebecca? Is that it? Is that your name?_

_…_

_**Emily:** _ _That's it!_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _No. Sorry, I knew a Rebecca._

_**Emily:** _ _Was she hot?_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _No. Not hot, beautiful. Smart. Kind of neurotic, but she was my best friend._

_**Emily:** _ _Did she die?_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _May as well, but no. She's not really something, someone I'm comfortable talking about._

_**Emily:** _ _Ok. What're you wearing?_

_…_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _ROFLMAO! I know people type that all the time, but I am seriously rolling on the floor laughing my ass off. I mean literally, I think I lost a pound. You're perfect, you know that? I don't are that you're an alcoholic, never change!_

_…_

_**Emily:** _ _I'm not an alcoholic._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Last time you said that you might be a drunk._

_**Emily:** _ _Well, I'm not._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _How long has it been since the last time you had a drink?_

_**Emily:** _ _7 and a ½ months._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _You realize that totally makes you an alcoholic, right?_

_**Emily:** _ _How does not having a drink for 7 and a ½ months make me an alcoholic?_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _It's not the fact that you haven't had a drink, it's that you know the last time you had one. That's what makes you a drunk._

_**Emily:** _ _I know because I haven't had a drink since the week before my trial. That's why I know. You kind of remember having to go before a judge; it's not something that you really forget._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Okay._

Quinn ground her teeth, because that was obviously a dismissal, and what right did Nohbdy have calling her a drunk and then dissmissing her? What did she know anyway? Nothing.

There were no words between them for a few minutes, and Quinn took the time to respond back to her other user, the car enthusiast having signed out two hours ago.

_**Nohbdy:** _ _It's 4:49. Are you getting off soon?_

Quinn wondered if Nohbdy was trying to get rid of her. She was surprised that it was as late as it was, she didn't notice the time passing so quickly, but she was upset, and a little annoyed that Nohbdy was dismissing her.

_**Emily:** _ _Depends. Are you watching the sunrise today?_

In her head, she imagined the girl grinning brightly.

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Yea, I thought about it._

_**Emily:** _ _Well, if you want to still talk to a drunk, then I think I can stick around until then._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Good. They don't start serving breakfast at my favorite diner until 6:00 anyway._

_**Emily:** _ _You're back in New York?_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Momentarily. Just got back a few before I logged on, actually, and I'll be in town until Thursday. Planning on stalking me?_

_**Emily:** _ _Pretty hard to talk someone from 3,000 miles away, especially when you don't know what they look like, or where they live._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Hmm…I guess…_

_**Emily:** _ _What're you getting at your diner?_

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Griddle cakes. Nice, unhealthy buttery, syrupy griddle cakes, with chocolate milk, and a fruit bowl on the side._

_Quinn's mouth watered. It wasn't fair._

_**Emily:** _ _Sounds nice._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Jealous, Emsie? You can be. I'm single, you only live once, and I don't care if I become a total fatty; I'm exhausted and I need something that's going to put me down._

The last hour passed by with surprising quickness. She didn't want to stop talking to this girl (she really, really hoped it was a girl), but she had this aching feeling in her stomach that this was their last conversation. Talking twice, that was one thing, but three times in a row, that meant that they actually enjoyed each other. Quinn was surprised by how much she liked talking to her mystery caller. Before she knew it, it was hitting firmly against 3:00. She sighed because her day started at 7:00 tomorrow, and it almost wasn't worth even bothering going to sleep. And because it was 3:00 and this might be it.

But Nohbdy once again seemed in tune with her.

_**Nohbdy:** _ _It's night, night time. When do you work again?_

_**Emily:** _ _Wednesday, 10:00-2:00._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _Well…are you going to send that little link thingy?_

_Quinn quickly did so. She chided herself at how quickly she sent off the email._

_**Emily:** _ _So I'll talk to you on Wednesday?_

_Quinn was suddenly anxious for the answer, but Nohbdy didn't disappoint._

_**Nohbdy:** _ _It's a date. Don't forget to dream of me. ;-)._

[Session ended at 3:00 a.m.]

Quinn found herself smiling. She tidied up the station for the next person. Nohbdy was annoying, and kind of hard to take, she was wildly inappropriate, and apparently sensitive, but Quinn couldn't remember having so much fun just chatting with someone, real or imaginary, in a long time. She sent the convo to the printer.

"Frankie, a word," Tishawna called, breaking into Quinn's happy little bubble. Quinn dragged herself over to where Tishawna was monitoring a call.

"Yes?" She wasn't sure if she should add the 'ma'am' and so she didn't.

"I just wanted to thank you for going above for a caller. It's appreciated, and I admire your dedication." She smiled. "That's all I wanted to say."

She let out an inner sigh of relief, worried that the woman was about to tell her that she was going to tell the courts that she needed to be saddled with more community service.

"Oh. Thank you."

Tishawna gave one last smile. "Keep up the good work!"

Quinn remembered to pick up the print out of their conversation off of the printer before she headed up the stairs. She took out her cell phone, and saw that she had a missed call from Heath.

**Heath: (1:47 a.m.): Text me when you get off, and I'll pick you up.**

She considered. The Village really was so much closer to than her house. Right before she was about to text him back, she saw she had another unread text.

**Angelicka (7:00 p.m.)** _**: You got it!** _

Quinn read and reread the text. It looked like things really were looking up. She may have, possibly, found a Santana for a collection she realized she hadn't stopped collecting, she just got a role she really wanted, and she wouldn't be sleeping alone tonight. Oh, and she had Wednesday to look forward to.

All in all, it wasn't a bad day. She almost didn't count the steps as she walked up them and out of the building.


	5. A Temporary Girl

                It was 6:58 in the morning when Santana flashed her ID badge at the door of KTIX Studio, a steaming cup of coffee held tightly in her hand. Santana figured that her sleeping patterns were probably doing some serious damage to her body, but whatever. Whenever she was back in New York she was on a completely different schedule than she was whenever she was on the road. On the road she rarely woke up before noon, but in New York no matter what time the tour van pulled up to the curb, she was up by 8:00 a.m., no exceptions. They could have pulled in two hours earlier, and she would be dragging herself into the shower, ready to begin her day. New York was movement, and if you didn’t know how to move fast enough, you got left behind.  Santana had given up practically everything for the chance of success; she had invested way too much to get left behind.   

                “Hey Santana!” Santana was so focused on her destination that at first she didn’t realize her name was being called. “Santana!”

                This time she heard it, and stopped, swiveling around until she located the person who had said her name. When she saw her speaker, she actually stopped, her mouth open slightly. “Thalia!”

                Thalia walked over to where Santana was, smiling at the reception she got. Thalia was a former band mate from the first band that Santana had been in following her break up with Kurt’s band, One Three Hill. If Santana oozed sexuality, Thalia was sensuality incarnate. She was three inches taller than Santana, three sizes bigger, had a bigger, brighter smile, a personality that appealed to just about everyone,  and an attitude that said she didn’t care if she was all that because she thought you were something special, too.

                “It’s been-“

                “ _Years_ , I know. What have you been up to? What are you doing here?”

                Thalia leaned against the wall, settling into a smile Santana knew all too well. “Interview,” she said, succinctly.

                “How’d it go?”

                Thalia’s smile grew. That was how it was with the girl. She had a base smile, and then smiles that just grew on top of it. She even smiled when she was mad, this kind of grimace that made you want to apologize profusely and take a step back at the same time. “I’m heading into the studio now. I can’t wait. Yeats and Dee-Dee are great; brilliant actually. I’m really looking forward to the interview!”

                Yeats and Dee-Dee were probably two of her favorite radio personalities. They had a morning show from 5:00 to 9:00. She had been able to sit in on a couple of their studio visits. The two of them had the kind of aurora that made you comfortable, they knew how to draw out questions in case you froze up, and if they couldn’t draw their guests out, they were there to swoop in to make sure that there was no dead space on the air.

                She had no doubt that Thalia would have a great interview. Thalia had had nothing but success since she and Santana had parted ways, and even though they didn’t talk often, Santana was happy for her. If there was anyone that deserved success it was her.

                “Do you have a new album coming out?”

                She nodded and shifted eagerly, causing Santana’s eyes to shift with her. She looked her over, really looked her over. She looked good, but that came as no surprise. She didn’t have that late night look that Santana knew she was currently wearing, and she wondered if there was someone in her life. She hoped so.

                Although Thalia was all too willing, Santana had never gone there, never even exchanged even a simple kiss, even, with the girl. Santana wanted to, she just never had and she wasn’t quite sure why.

                There was so much to Thalia that honestly looks were the very last thing that you noticed. Santana could sit beside her and instantly feel calm. They could have a conversation for hours. They could go for a jog together; a bike ride, anything physical and Thalia could keep up. Some people were as shallow as puddles; Thalia was a canyon who believed that the world could be changed with music and time. She was the Andy Dufresne of the music world.

                She was pretty much the epitome of perfection, but maybe that’s why Santana had never attempted it. Or maybe her untapped optimism reminded her too much of Brittany, or her mind reminded her too much of Quinn, or she didn’t want her, or Thalia, to find out that she wasn’t good enough, or maybe she didn’t want to be the one who broke Thalia with her love, or find herself falling for Thalia, only to realize that she could never really fall in love with anyone because she was already in love with music.

                “I do,” Thalia was saying, and Santana was brought out of her thoughts. “I do! It’s called _Breakout_ and the first single is featured in _The_ _Space Files_.”

                “That’s awesome,”

                Her smile was full of pride, but yet was still humble. “It is! I never thought I’d get to this point, but here I am!” she shrugged her shoulders, and it was cute, and Santana couldn’t help but to return the smile. “How about you? How is one Santana Lopez doing?”

                Where normally Santana might have frowned at that question, she didn’t, just settled for a comfortable smile. Life was good. “My group _Upsell Falls_ has been booking steady gigs, and we just found out that we may bein talks for a record deal.”

                “That’s so cool. I’m happy for you!” Santana knew she was being sincere and genuine so she gave a winning smile back at her. “What about _your_ album?”

                “That’s where I’m heading now. I was heading down to the studio when I bumped into you.”   

                Thalia checked the time via a gold pocket watch that had once belonged to her grandfather. Santana’s head gave a slight shake because hardly anyone of her generation still wore watches and for her to walk around with a pocket watch was just so charming. “Listen, I’ve got to head up now, but are you going to be here for awhile?” Santana nodded. “Can I come visit after the interview?”

                Santana considered the offer. She loved that Thalia actually wanted to spend time with her, and wasn’t just pretending. “If Fats doesn’t have a problem with it,” she finally said.

                Her lips stretched and widened and Santana saw teeth. “Great, I’ll see you then!” Santana smiled, too, as Thalia rushed off towards the bank of elevators. Santana turned the opposite way and took the stairs down. 

                Days off of the road, Santana worked with Fat Geo, a guy who was neither fat nor named Geo, and refused to offer any explanation for where the nickname came from. Fat Geo had a radio syndicate show and the station also had a recording studio which is the reason for the job. Santana was slowly earning her way to her own album. Well, she was earning studio time to record her own album. She’s been working here for two and a half years now, and had nine songs down. Even though she could kind of afford to buy studio time she still put in the work because she’d come so far she didn’t want to change that now.

                “Auntie!”

                Fat Geo always got a kick out of calling her that. Usually Santana just rolled her eyes, but today she was actually happy to see him.

                “Fats!”

                “How was the weekend?”

                “Actually…what do you know about Alt Records?”

                “They’re pretty legit. They’ve got a rep for doing right by their ‘alternative’ artists. They have a rep of keeping the feel of the band even once they get signed.

                “Vance from Alt Records wants to have a meeting with us.”

                “And you’re thinking twice about it?”

                Santana gave a shrug.

                “Alright, look here little mama. What is up with you and this self sabotage?”

                Santana frowned without realizing she was doing so. “What do you mean?”

                 “I ask you on the show, you don’t ever want to do a guest music spot. Every time one of your groups gets some real success, you switch groups,”

                “That’s not true.”

                Fat Geo scoffed. “What’re you afraid of?”

                 “I ain’t afraid of nothing.” Her voice had automatically switched to her ‘Lima Heights Adjacent accent and Fats looked at her with a kind of satisfied, but sad, look.

                “Then what’s stopping you?”

                 Santana blinked, biting on the corner of her lip. “Nothing.”

                “Come on my show tonight. We can play one of your already recorded songs. You just have to sit down for a five minute interview.”

Santana looked longingly at the recording booth. She could hear it calling to her, pulling her away from this conversation.

                “I can’t,” she said softly.

                “Why not?”

                “It’s short notice.”

                “You guys playing a gig tonight?”

                “No, but we’ve got practice, and-,”  
                “And what? You’re going to be young and dumb in NYC?”

                “Come on Fats, why’re you giving me a hard time?”

                “Just trying to figure you out, Snix. You know I do a new talent segment on my show, and I know you know because you’ve helped me out during, and I know you’ve taken a couple of new talent home.”

                Santana blushed, then gave a semi embarrassed smile. You’ve got a powerhouse voice, yet you only sing background in whatever group you’re with, and don’t tell me I don’t know what I’m talking about, because I’ve known you before you’ve known us. I do night club circuits, so I’ve seen you around. When you sing, when you stand in front of the crowd, they only see you, yet you don’t do solo’s all that much unless it’s asked. Why? You don’t strike me as someone who’s shy.”

                “Please don’t try to shrink me, Fats, there’s not much going on up there. And I’m ready to lay a track!”

                Fats shrugged. “Alright little mama. You can not answer my questions all you want, but you can’t ignore them, but my mama told me to always respect a lady’s wishes so let’s get to work!”

                Santana gave a wide grin, because this was one of her favorite places to be. Santana, who hadn’t known much about the music production industry when she first got involved with Fat Geo, had just been amazed by everything she had to learn. Seeing her interest, Fats had made sure to not only give her the tour, but to explain what each piece of equipment was used for, what it did, and how much it would cost, should she be stupid enough to break something.

            Fat Geo’s studio had three rooms: the control room, where the computer equipment, sound board, and mixing console were located, the ‘talent’ room, where musicians recorded the music, and then the isolation booth. The booth was the smallest of the three rooms; it was probably the width and length of Santana’s body if she was lying down. There was nothing fancy about the place, but it had all the necessary equipment, and Santana never tired of being in this space. And she liked being around Fat Geo. Their relationship wasn’t purely business; he was like a mentor to her, and she loved that she could soundboard off of him. She was kind of missing that in her life. “So, let’s see what you got,” he said.

            Santana pulled the midi keyboard towards her, and made sure it was properly turned on, before she started sketching out her newest melody. Santana wasn’t really good at it, but she was slowly learning how to play the keyboard. She had all of these arrangements running around in her head, and she wanted to be able to play them out instead of always having to have someone to translate them for her because it never came out exactly as she envisioned it.

            With her left hand she played out a simple A-E-G-E eighth note combination that would repeat and with her right E-E-D-C in a half note combination before she tapped out three quarter D-D-C’s. It was simplistic, yet haunting. It set the tone for the song. Fats listened to her play and when she was done she looked up expectant.

            “That’s what I got for now.”

            Fats sat there and chewed her simple tune over in his head. “It kind of sounds like a Disney princess ballroom tune,” Fats said to Santana’s chagrin, and she felt her shoulders droop slightly. “Not like in a bad way,” Geo said quickly, seeing how Santana took his words.

            Despite the two and a half years that they’d been working together, Santana still took even the smallest of his criticisms to heart. Waiting to hear what Fats thought was where she felt the most vulnerable. She knew that she wasn’t very good at writing music, but she put everything into this, and wanted perfection. She knew that Fats knew how to layer it, and the studio band would make it soar. In theory she knew that this was just the equivalent of her rough draft, but she also feared Fats’ metaphorical red pen.

            “Like ‘Once Upon a December’,” he added. “Let’s hear the lyrics.”

            Santana took a deep breath, placing a hand on her stomach just to steady her. Melody she always had trouble with, but her words spoke for themselves. _“She’s got eyes that beg, please don’t forget me. She’s got arms outstretched, to further draw you in.”_ Geo’s eyes closed. Santana sang with more furor, keeping the same steady beat, and in her head she heard the notes repeating. Like a clock ticking. _“Her hips say I’ll love me, if you let me. But you know it’s already over, before it begins. The times stamped already, on the things you did. The way you felt when your feet left the ground. Even still you try to pretend, that after it’s over, she’ll stick around…but you know she’ll only let you down. She looks at you like you’re her one and only, and even though you know it isn’t true, you keep hope that maybe this time she’ll follow through. But when you go to sleep, you know she’ll be gone before the morning light, cause she’s that temporary girl, you get for a moment, but remember all your life.”_

She continued into the second verse and the chorus which had a slightly quicker tempo, before she was back to the final verse and chorus. She sang the final line of the chorus one last time drawing out the last words before her mouth closed, leaving them in silence. When Fat Geo’s eyes opened they danced with excitement, and a thrill passed through Santana, too, because Fats emotion meant nothing but good things. “That’s going to be our single, right there! That’s it, Auntie.”

            “Yea?” Santana questioned tentatively.

            “Positive. Let’s get you in the booth so you can hear it, too.”

            Santana scooted into the booth. There was nothing glamorous about the room. The walls were black because of the insulation and sound proofing, and it was mostly dark, except for an eerie red light that Fats controlled from the control room. It came with only three pieces of equipment: a choir stand, a stool, and the mike. The first time Santana had ever set foot in the booth, it had been a kind of surreal experience for her. She couldn’t see Fats because the way the studio was set up, you couldn’t see the control room from the isolation booth, but he could see her over his video equipment. And they could talk. She could hear Fats in her ears, but she could also hear herself, the echo of her voice, in the headset. It was distracting when she tried to talk to him, even more so when she sang. 

            It had taken her time to learn the fundamentals of how to record, but now it was one of her favorite things. She liked the feeling of being in the booth. She even liked the loneliness of it. The room was completely quiet, all outside sounds blocked out so that when she had the earmuffs on, she couldn’t hear anything, save for the sound of her heart beating. With the limited lighting, it was dark, but not dark enough to freak you out…just to feel curled up into yourself. At least that’s how Santana always felt.

                The mike picked up every little sound in the room, which is why there was so little in the room. Everything was designed to cut down on sounds, even sounds you didn’t realize you were making: fidgeting, scuffing your feet on the ground, sighing, playing with your hair, turning a page of music…Santana had never known before how loud the crinkle of a piece of paper was until she tried turning a page while she had the headset on.

            “Ready when you are.”

            Santana took another deep breath and started to sing. Her voice was already warmed up from singing it in the control, so it came out sounding smooth, and Santana was impressed with how sure she sounded in her ears as she came to the last verse. _“_ _You know you can take her or leave her. You know you don’t have to give in. You know in your heart she’s a deceiver; she’s the kind that blows with the wind. Still you feel like you can save her, you tell yourself that she’s just lost. Or that it won’t hurt to let her go, that the pain is worth the cost. Because the way she looks at you, like you’re her one and only, makes you forget that she’ll only leave you lonely. (She can only leave you lonely). Because you know she’ll be gone, before the morning light, because she’s that temporary girl, you get for a moment, but end up loving for the rest of your life.”_

            Santana exited the booth surprised to see that Fats now had company. The external doors automatically locked when the red ‘recording’ light was flipped, but maybe because it was just her, and not the band as well, the doors had remained unlocked.

            “Look who washed ashore,” Fats said.

            Thalia shot her a smile that Santana quickly returned. “How long have you been here?” Santana questioned.

            “Not long. I just walked through the door right as you were finishing up, actually.”

            “Yea, so she didn’t even get to hear you singing,” Fat Geo said pointedly.

            Santana found herself momentarily grateful, even though Thalia’s heard her sing before.  “How’d the interview go?”

            Thalia’s mega-watt smile said it all. “I’ll tell you about it later,” she said with a nod to Fat Geo who was looking at her.  
            “Alright, Ms. Snixx, want to hear how you sound?”

            Santana nodded. A few seconds later, her bare voice was playing back in the room. In between listening to herself sing, she could hear what was wrong. She had some pacing issues, her voice had fallen a little flat, another time when she was just a bit sharp. But when she stopped to listen she could hear the raw emotion in her voice, and it was good. It was really good. And it wasn’t often that Santana thought that.       

            While they listened, Fats layered her vocals with the simple tune that she had played on the midi earlier. If Santana ever decided to go to college, she would probably go for music production or sound engineering, because it was thrilling. As a kid she kind of always thought that recording a song was as simple as just singing it. She heard of musicians who could record in one sitting, which was far more remarkable and rare than you would think. Not as rare as being born with perfect pitch, but not that common. And even with musicians who did possess that special gift, songs were never done in one sitting because even if the artist was perfect, the conditions weren’t. And it wasn’t as simple as simply stopping if you make a mistake, and picking up where you left off. No one sang the same song the same way twice even if you were singing the same notes. Going back to the spot where the mistake was made, was only part, and not even that big a part, of the whole process.

            Santana chanced a glance at Thalia and saw her just as enthused as she was. She and Thalia connected musically very easily. The best part of her being in the same group was their songwriting potential. Thalia was one of those rare people who didn’t just listen to music, she felt it. She connected to it. Music sat in her soul, and altered her moods, and just watching her get lost-there really was no other words to describe it-in the songs that she was listening to, or singing-it was mystifying. Santana caught herself watching her listening to Santana’s music and couldn’t help but stare. Thalia, sensing Santana’s gaze, momentarily looked away from the computer, catching Santana’s eye. She smiled a smile that Santana found herself returning. This was new.

            “What do you think, miss?” Fat Geo questioned of Thalia. “Hot or not?”

            “Definitely, hot. And I like the simplicity of it.”

            Fats nodded enthusiastically, his head bobbing up and down. “Def. Got a little Alica Keyes vibe going with just the piano playing. “So, Auntie, when do you want to lay this track down? I can get the band in,” he checked the calendar against the adjoining wall, “Thursday around four. If not then, in two weeks on Monday morning.”

            Santana used the studio musicians because she didn’t want to use her band for her own private album and anyway, her band didn’t have the sound she was going for. Her voice was better suited to the old blues/jazz feel and Upsell Falls was more alternative. She adjusted her voice to their sound when they performed, but this was where she felt most at home. It was mostly the band fees, and comped studio time that she worked for. Fat Geo’s opinion, expertise, and sound mixing he threw in for free because he liked her. 

            “Monday?” Santana said hesitantly. “Won’t be sure if I can make this Thursday until band practice tonight, and I know how quickly your time fills up.”

            “How about for now I’ll pencil you in for both days, and if it turns out you can’t make Thursday, you help me out during the show, too?”

            Santana had a strong suspicion that by ‘help out’ he meant come on the show. She had serious reservations about doing that, both personal and professional, yet she found herself nodding.

            “Deal.”

            “Alright.”

            Santana turned on her phone to text her band mates. While she was composing the text the phone started to ring. Santana sighed when she saw the name on her screen. She turned to Fat Geo and Thalia. “I got to get this, give me a sec?”

                She received a nod. She excused herself from the room, connecting the call. “Hi, Rachel.”

                “Did you get my email?” Santana wondered how the little elfin creature manage to sound impatient and as if Santana were taking up her time when she had been the one to call.

                “Yes, I got your email; I just haven’t had a chance to respond to it yet.”

                “Well, what’s the delay?”

                “You know I have a life outside of your emails, right?”

                “Santana, you know that I like to have a set plan for things.” Because Rachel’s time was valuable and of course no one else’s was. “And for you to not, at least extend the courtesy of returning my email with either a ‘yea or nay’-,”

                “Pardon me, smurf, I just needed some time to think about it.”

                “What’s there to think about? Don’t you want to see all of your friends again?”

                Santana would have rolled her eyes, but since there was no one to see it, she thought better of it. “I’ve been kind of been really busy with work.”

                “I’m giving you six months advance notice so you can’t blame having to work; that’s plenty of time to get off, and need I remind you just how long it’s been since anyone has really seen you? Brittany hasn’t even seen much of you, and you two live together.”

                That wasn’t technically true, but she felt no need to elaborate to Rachel about her and Britts current living situation. Santana had officially moved out of Brittany’s apartment a long time ago. She still had clothing there, but all of her possessions, pretty much anything she didn’t absolutely need on a daily basis, was in a storage locker. When she was in the city she slept at Brittany’s apartment, yes, unless Brittany was actually home, or if there were too many of her fellow dancer friends over for Santana’s comfort. Then she crashed with one of her band mates. She and Brittany were still kind-of friends, but the kind that didn’t talk very often, yet always seemed to pick back up right where they had left things however long ago.

                She knew she really ought to be looking for an apartment; she didn’t even get her mail at Brittany’s still, but to do so would mean that she had intentions of staying in New York, and she wasn’t sure if she did. 

                “No, mother, there’s no need for you to go into that.”

                “Not to mention how long it’s been since all of us have gotten together. Mercedes is going to be stateside for the first time in awhile, and it’s the perfect opportunity.”

                “I read your email,” Santana reminded her. “I don’t need you to repeat yourself.”

                “Everyone else has already responded back!”

                Santana couldn’t resist the opportunity to slightly needle the overwrought diva. “Really? Quinn’s going to be there?”

                She knew that she got her on that one because of the way she stumbled over the next words. “I…would love it if Quinn would show up, but we both know that she has chosen to cut all of us out of her life a long time ago. Short of hiring a private investigator,”

                Santana quickly cut her off. “Okay, you do that, and if you do, I’ll come.”

                “Santana!”

                “Talk to you later, Rach, thanks for calling!”

                She hung up before Rachel could give her any other reason to stay on the phone. She turned and almost ran smack into Thalia. “Hey, sorry about that,” she quickly apologized.

                “It’s no problem. I have to head out anyway. It was good running into you again, Santana.”

                “You too, Thalia.” Santana was surprised to find that she was disappointed, and if she didn’t know better Thalia seemed to be upset that she had to leave, too. “Thalia?” Santana called as they started to part company. Thalia turned slightly in order to face her. “Yes?”

                “You know that cup of coffee we always talk about getting?”

                The expression on the girl’s face didn’t change, just remained expectant, curious. “Yes, what about it?”

                “You think maybe we could actually get it some time?”

                Thalia, who was nothing like Santana, and nothing like Quinn, and constantly hid themselves behind masks, and shields, and walls, smiled brightly because she liked the idea of doing something so innocuous with Santana, and she wasn’t afraid to show how much she liked the idea of it. “Depends. Are you just asking me this now that I’m semi-famous?”

                “No,” Santana said honestly, earnestly. She thought that maybe there should be something more that she should say, but she couldn’t think of anything, so she didn’t, she just stood there, and waited for Thalia’s answer.

                “I’d like that,” Thalia responded. Then she gave a little ironic smile. “Have your people call my people. Oh, and I really liked your song,” she added before she disappeared from Santana’s sight.

                Santana found herself smiling even after even the smell of Thalia was gone.      


	6. No

_Quinn was struggling to stay awake. Rachel's naked body was pressed into her side, and the smaller girl was absently playing with strands of Quinn's hair. A gentle smile found itself on Quinn's lips, and she felt fingers gently pressing against it. Quinn looked down. "What are you doing?"_

_Rachel gave a giggle. "I don't know," she whispered. Why she was whispering Quinn didn't know, but it kind of felt right in this space. "You're just so beautiful."_

_Quinn kind of rolled her eyes, because Rachel never stopped fawning over her, and she didn't really know what to do with it, because as much as Rachel admired her looks, she wasn't that fond of them. Pretty was just what she was. It was like admiring someone's skin, or their eyes, or the way their hands looked. Sure she had done a lot to change her look, but even though no one else could see it, Lucy had been pretty, too. Rachel took the time, every now and then, to admire the other things that made her Quinn, things that she actually had to work to achieve, but mostly her compliments were about the way she looked, which at times made her uneasy. Did Rachel like her, or did she just like her perfection?_

_Rachel's lips on her own took her by surprise, and when she looked up it was to see the girl hovering over her, looking down into her eyes with a look that screamed pure adoration._

_"I love you."_

_Quinn froze going ramrod straight underneath Rachel._

_"I…"_

_Rachel immediately realized that the words were a mistake, but she had just felt it in that moment, had felt like if she didn't say them then she would explode, but the look on Quinn's face said it all._

_"Y-you don't have to say it back," Rachel quickly said, "and it doesn't mean anything, not really, I just…I don't know what I was thinking." But Quinn continued to pull back._

_"Quinn, don't-" Rachel begged._

_Gently, but still bruising, Quinn pushed Rachel off of her, sitting up in the bed, awake. Rachel had started crying, and Quinn was looking for a way out of this, a way out of this space, realizing a little late that she was in her own room._

_Feeling like the world's biggest asshole, she stared down at the ground. "Listen, my mom's going to be home soon..." her words trailed off, but Quinn's earlier words, the ones that she had said to Rachel before she came over when she said that she was going to be alone all weekend, echoed in the silence that followed her spoken words. "So you should probably go."_

_She could feel Rachel's eyes on her. "Quinn, please," the girl begged. "Look at me."_

_Quinn didn't. She stalked to the bathroom to wash off the traces of Rachel that clung to her body, her smell, her scent, her love._

Quinn woke up in the middle of the night, groping her empty bed for a body that wasn't there. She sighed deeply, her mouth watering at the same moment that tears leaked from her eyes. She was crying, and she was thirsty, oh so very thirsty. She felt like a vampire, only what she craved wasn't in humans, but in glass bottles. She hadn't always had this dependent need for a drink. It didn't use to dominate her life. She grew up resenting her mother for every time she took a drink instead of shouting at her husband; every time she opened a store bought pastry instead of baking something for a school bake sale because she was too hung over too cook. Instead of sympathizing with her, or finding out why she drank so much, she found herself pulling away. She went from helping her mom when she had a hangover, to attempting to exacerbate it as much as possible.

She swore that when she was older she would never drink. She'd never be her mother. Now, as her body practically begged her for the liquid, her only comforting thought was: at least she wasn't completely her mother; there was no one in her life for her drinking to hurt. And that accident really hadn't been her fault. Entirely.

In the absence of her crutch she was left to stew over her dreams. She had a complete repertoire of dreams about Rachel; their secret relationship had spanned three years, and yet, yet it was only the memories of the many times that she'd made the girl cry that stayed with her.

* * *

182 steps left.

At exactly 10:00 Quinn got notice of a chat request.

_**Moderator:** Hello. This is the Lighthouse. My name is Emily. How are you?_

Quinn got no response.

**Moderator:** _Hello?_

Still nothing. She was going to close the chat window, but the ellipsis at the bottom of the screen told her that someone was there, and that they were typing. She decided to leave the chat window open, making sure that 10:00 was the right time. The phone rang in front of her, and with a sigh she picked it up.

"Hello, this is the lighthouse. You're speaking with Dana. How are you?" Dana Stark was her southern bell. She had black hair, a slight southern accent, and a heavy fear of spiders. Quinn enjoyed taking her out every now and then because who didn't enjoy playing the southern bell, and as long as her accent never dropped, it was all just fun and games.

Her caller was a nervous female who seemed either really drunk, or had a stuttering problem. A minute into the phone call conversation, her chat user finally decided to make their presence.

**User: d" " "b**

Quinn squinted at the screen. The ellipses were still there, though, so she didn't respond. Something told her not to.

**User: $ , , , $**

After awhile of listening, Quinn was able to work out that her caller, who just said her name was Ansel, had just caught her boyfriend cheating. Apparently, she wasn't the world's worst girlfriend/boyfriend out there.

**User: cF" "?C**

Quinn had never really spent much time thinking about what it did to the people that she had cheated on. Did it make it cautious about their other relationships? How badly had it honestly hurt them? Finn never loved her; mentally he was cheating on her, even if it wasn't physically, and that was while he thought that she was pregnant with his kid. She got a lot of flack about the whole Puck thing, but did people just forget that? Or that Rachel had gone after him while she was pregnant?

**User: dF 3b**

"Was it something I did wrong?" Ansel sobbed into the phone. "What's wrong with me? I always seem to end up with the guys who do this! All I want is someone to love me!"

**User: '$. .$'**

Yep. She had totally been there. She was still there. There was a bitter, resentful part of her that kept going back to the way she felt at the end of her junior year where she cried on Santana's shoulder. Weren't they supposed to be the lucky ones? The one's that everyone wanted; the ones who were lucky in life and in love? Quinn had, at least, known love once in high school, and she had thrown it away. Maybe that's the reason why she couldn't let go of Rachel

**User: CbecedC**

"Listen, Ansel, sometimes men," women, too, "cheat, and it's not for any other reason than that they are jerks. You don't have to blame yourself for a guy being a jerk. Some people are just self-centered and their eyes wander. I'm sure you're a wonderful person."

"Then why can't I get anyone to ever stay with me?"

**User: $, ,$**

"Because you haven't found the right person, yet. It's not that it's you, it's that they're not the one for you. Some of us get to fall in love right away, and we think that they're lucky because of it. But other people have to be seasoned, they're more complex. We think we know who we are, but we don't, and until we know who we are, we don't really know what we want." Quinn wondered where this was coming from. But Dana was far more positive then Quinn. "And just because we've figured that out for ourselves, doesn't mean that our partner has figured it out for themselves. We get impatient so we date others while we're waiting for the one, and really the universe is just waiting for both of you to be ready for each other. I think the perfect person is out there waiting for you, and sweetie, no one is worth your tears, and the one who is, won't make you cry."

That saying, of course, was utter bullshit because the one who was worth your tears would make you cry more times than you could count, sometimes unintentionally, but sometimes intentional. The truth of the matter was that we hurt the ones that we love, sometimes more than we would ever hurt someone we cared for lukewarmly, or a perfect stranger. Quinn hadn't been the only one doing the hurting with her and Rachel, she just did the most.

"And the important thing to remember is that you shouldn't have to change yourself to fit with someone else because that never works. If they can't like you for you, then they never really liked you anyway."

Maybe that was the thing that kept her up, kept Rachel constantly on her mind: had Rachel actually liked her for her? If she stripped down all of the things that Rachel liked about her, if she was no longer Quinn but Lucy once again, if she wasn't so pretty, and her skin wasn't so smooth, and her parents didn't have a lot of money, and influence, and if Quinn was still her, would Rachel have still liked her, loved her, then?

While she continued to talk to Ansel (and conversation moved on to a lighter topic), Nohbdy (she was about 80% sure it was Nohbdy) continued to send her random characters that Quinn had thankfully come to realize were forming a picture. Once the realization hit her, she kept only a passing glimpse at the ellipses at the bottom of the screen to make sure she was still 'talking', but didn't look at the full screen, not wanting to ruin the surprise.

Finally, after about 20 painstaking minutes, the typing stopped, and Quinn was able to fully see the picture that Nohbdy had sent her.

{[](http://s1072.photobucket.com/user/jaienoellepearl/media/263hj83_zps37e2eb3a.jpg.html)}

_**User:** Do you like it, Emsie? Nohbdy questioned, once the last bit of it was done. Quinn sat back and looked at the completed picture on her screen._

_**Emily:** What's this?_

She could see what it was, clearly. It was the rose from Beauty and the Beast, the one that tracked how much time the beast had to get someone to fall in love with him, done completely in Ascii symbols. She just wondered what it meant.

_**Nohbdy:** It's a flower. I said that this is a date, and when I take a woman out on a date I like to wine and dine them, so I brought you a flower. You would have gotten it sooner, but your horrible filtering software won't let me drag and drop, or copy and paste, so I had to redo it. What do you think?_

It certainly took the cake for the most romantic gesture that she had gotten from any one of her callers/users since she started her volunteer work.

_**Emily:** It's beautiful!_

_**Nohbdy:** I had some Moet for us, too, but I drank it because you were three hours late. ;-)._

It surprised Quinn that she was smiling. She touched her lips, feeling how big her smile was. She had to wipe it off before she responded to Ansel, because otherwise the girl would hear it in her voice and think she was being laughed at, but she still felt warm inside.

Quinn's fingers hovered over the keys, contemplating what she should respond. She finally decided on playful banter.

_**Emily:** What else do you have planned for this date?_

_**…** _

_**Nohbdy:** What're you wearing?_

Quinn rolled her eyes. For the moment she forget she was talking to Santana, jr.

_**Emily:** Jeans and a peasant top. What're you wearing?_

_**Nohbdy:** Well, since this is our first date, I didn't want to show up too sexy, and I didn't want to be too casual, because if I was too sexy, you would just jump my bones right then and there, and if I was too casual you wouldn't take me seriously, so I'm wearing a dress. Not one of my 'fuck me' dresses, because I don't want you to think I'm easy, but one that gives you just enough to want a whole lot more. One that teases just the right amount of cleavage, and shows off my figure, but is just long enough, and loose enough, for you to know how good it can get._

Quinn had no problem picturing it in her mind, and she liked the image her mind came up with.

_**Emily:** So does my jaw drop when I open the door for you?_

_**Nohbdy:** Definitely._

_**Emily:** How many times did you have to change your clothes before you settled on that outfit?_

_**Nohbdy:** Just three. The second I put this dress on, I knew it was right. You?_

_**Emily:** A half a dozen, maybe more. I'm not quite ready so I invite you in. Offer you a drink._

_**Nohbdy:** I accept a glass of water, but I don't drink it because despite my outward display of confidence, I'm actually a little nervous._

_**Emily:** Why's that?_

_**Nohbdy:** Because I'm taken aback by you. You astound me, and I'm not used to being in the company of people who take me by surprise. I'm used to admirer's but few people who truly see me. But when you look at me, I always feel that you do._

_**Emily:** I go back into the bathroom to make sure that my make-up is perfect, I want to change my outfit after seeing you, but I'm worried that you'll make fun of me for doing so **.**_

_**Nohbdy:** I would. You have a nice place, by the way **.**_

_**Emily:** Do I?_

_**Nohbdy:** {nods}. Yep. It's small, but comfortable, filled with standard furniture pieces mixed in with very comfortable, personal items because you just can't stand the idea of conforming._

Quinn faltered. She felt the hairs prick on her neck, and she glanced around, having the sudden feeling of being watched. That description of her house was so spot on. Did she have a stalker? But if she did, how in the world would they have known who she was? That they would have reached her?

_**Nohbdy:** Just as I'm about to get snappish because you're taking so long, my eyes land on something unexpected, and I smile. Moments later, you come back into view._

_**Emily:** Do you like what you see?_

_**Nohbdy:** Definitely. My jaw drops._

_**Emily:** Why's that?_

_**Nohbdy:** Because of the shy smile that you give me when I look at you. The look for approval that you don't need. I stand up, a goofy smile on my face, and I don't know what to do with myself, so I offer you my arm so I'll stop fidgeting._

_**Emily:** Chivalrous. Do you normally open the doors for your dates?_

_**Nohbdy:** No. Actually I like it when my partner opens doors for me, but since I asked you on this one, I'm going to go all out for you. Are you usually the one that doors are held open for?_

_**Emily:** Yes. If I'm being honest, though, I actually like to be the more assertive one._

_**Nohbdy:** Does that include in the bedroom?_

Quinn blushed at the idea of sharing her bedroom habits with a complete stranger.

_**Emily:**  I mostly like to top._

_**Nohbdy:** I'm okay with that._

As Quinn went into her second hour of a conversation with both Nohbdy and Ansel, she felt like she was fully deserving of an Oscar for her performance. Because she went from blushing and grinning like a banshee in one second, to being calm and collected the next. Somehow she managed to keep up with both the somber conversation with Ansel, and the playful one with Nohbdy.

_**Emily:** So where do you take me?_

_**Nohbdy:**  Dinner first. We grab it from a food cart I know about._

A food cart? Quinn definitely wasn't expecting that. This Nohbdy seemed to be set to impress her and she would take her to eat at a food cart.

_**Emily:** A food cart?_

_**Nohbdy:** Yep. Just so I can see that expression on your face. This place has the best hot dogs in the city. We get our dogs, chips, and drinks, and find an uninhabited bench for us to sit on, and I watch you out of the corner of my eye, while you hesitantly debate with yourself about whether to eat your hot dog._

Quinn laughed. That she would be doing if her date took her to get food off of a food cart. She had yet to do so, even though she had, at times, been tempted.

_**Nohbdy:** but then you finally just think to yourself, screw it, and you take a bite._

_**Emily:** And it's the best hot dog I've ever eaten?_

_**Nohbdy:** Naturally. Without meaning to, you let out a moan. And I smile to myself, as I see you relax a little into yourself. I know you were expecting something less...cheap...but I don't want to give you what you expect because I like throwing you off. And I want to show you that a cheap date doesn't have to be cheap._

Quinn was really liking this 'date' so far.

_**Emily:**  Where do we go after we eat?_

_**Nohbdy:** We walk around for a little bit, trade stories of our childhoods. I tell you about the time that some stupid boy pushed me into the wall at the swimming pool, and I had to be rushed into the hospital._

_**Emily:** And I tell you about the time that my parents left me alone in the house for an entire weekend when I was eight years old, and didn't realize I wasn't with them until the next day._

_**Nohbdy:** You were home-alone'd?_

_**Emily:** Yes._

_**Nohbdy:** Were you scared?_

_**Emily:**  Terrified. I didn't go to sleep that night, just sat in the closet with my flashlight and my teddy, and waited for morning._

_**Nohbdy:** That's really shi tty of you parents._

_**Emily:** I know. Unfortunately it wasn't the last time. I never told anyone that before._

_**Nohbdy:** Your secret is safe with me. One time, in 7th grade, I peed on myself in front of two other people. It was really embarrassing. I thought I'd never live it down._

_**Emily:** How did you?_

_**Nohbdy:** I warned the people into never telling._

_**Emily:** And that worked?_

_**Nohbdy:** I can be persuasive._

_**Emily:** Were you popular?_

_**Nohbdy:** Not really. You?_

_**Emily:** I had my moments._

_**Nohbdy:** What's that mean? You were on top?_

_**Emily:** Every now and then. Popularity is fleeting. I was, and I wasn't._

_**Nohbdy:** I was 'top bitch' for most of high school, but most people didn't like me._

_**Emily:** For me it's pretty much the same. I don't even still talk to anyone from high school._

_**Nohbdy: T** hat must be a recurring theme. Most of my after high school friends don't either. I'm kind of stuck with the people from my high school. I keep trying to lose them, but they won't let it happen, not really. I even still, kind of, live with my high school girlfriend._

_**Emily:** Kind of?_

_**Nohbdy:** I travel most of the time, so really, I'm homeless. Most of my stuff is in suitcases and storage._

_**Emily:** Oh..._

_**Nohbdy:** I take you to this small jazz bar I know. Not because either of us are particularly into jazz, but because I want you to see what passion looks like. These guys are in their late 50s and 60s and they do this not because they'll be famous, not because it will ever make them rich, but because it's what they love to do, and I'm a bit of a hopeless romantic, so I want you to see that passion can still exist, 40/50 years later. I get us a small table, front row. Order us drinks. Jack and Coke for me._

_**Emily:** 7 and 7 for me._

_**Nohbdy:** While we listen to the music, and I get lost in it, we relax towards each other, occasionally share a comment or two._

_**Emily:** I say something about the shoes being warn by the trumpeter. His bowling shirt._

_**Nohbdy:** I make fun of the drummer's fedora. Our feet touch beneath the table, my hand rests on top of it. An invitation._

_**Emily:**  That I don't take, but I want to. Every part of me wants to touch you. To hold your hand, but I don't. Instead, I whisper to you about the cheesy couple beside us, and the guy who so obviously brought his date to this same bar just to seem like he's 'artsy'._

_**Nohbdy:** Eugh...I know. We stay and listen and talk until the musicians are finished, and the club is closing down for the night, but still we hesitate. Our hands are so close together that they're almost touching._

_**Emily:** But they don't. When you stand up, however, your hand slips into mine, and I smile as we walk out of the bar together._

_**Nohbdy:** It's late for us, but early for me, so I take you to an abandoned loft. One that doesn't have a bunch of crackheads and drug attics in it. I checked before hand; it's a place I know well. I take you up to the roof, so we can watch the city, but at the same time feel away from it._

_**Emily:** What do we do up there?_

_**Nohbdy:** I convince you to let me paint you nude._

_**Emily:** That's so not a thing that's happening._

_**Nohbdy:** Nah, I know. I'm just kidding with you. I can't draw, and I certainly can't paint. We talk. What else would we do?_

_**Emily:** What do we talk about?_

_**Nohbdy:** I don't know. What's on you mind?_

_**Emily:** Everything, but I'm not sure if I want to talk about it with you. I'm not a very open person, but I want to get to know you, so I ask you questions about yourself that we haven't covered yet._

_**Nohbdy:** What else do you want to know?_

_**Emily: E** verything. Do you have any siblings?_

_**Nohbdy:** Only child._

_**Emily:** What's your favorite thing to do?_

_**Nohbdy:** Be on stage._

_**Emily:** What's your favorite color._

_**Nohbdy:** Dusk._

_**Emily:** Dusk isn't a color **.**_

_**Nohbdy:** It's a palette. I like that subdued coloring. I like sunsets._

_**Emily:** I thought you like sunrises._

_**Nohbdy** : Can't I like both?_

_**Emily** : What do you do that you work nights?_

_**Nohbdy:** I get paid to frequent bars._

_**Emily:** Are you a bartender?_

_**Nohbdy: I**  was once._

_**Emily:** I was, too._

_**Nohbdy:** Were you any good?_

_**Emily:** The best. A lady of the night?_

_**Nohbdy:** I'm in a band._

_**Emily:** Really?_

_**Nohbdy:** Yep. What do you do?_

_**Emily:** I'm an actress._

_**Nohbdy:** Isn't everybody in LA?_

_**Emily:** LOL, yeah...actually, surprisingly, no. Before I moved out to LA I had this image in my head that it was a city where everyone is beautiful, and wealthy, and lives such exciting lives._

_**Nohbdy:** And it's not?_

_**Emily:** Well, it has it's share of beautiful and rich people, sure, but there's a lot more not so much here; a lot of poor people just trying to make it, caught up in other people's dreams, a lot of middle class pretending their rich, looking to the stars. There's a little bit of everything: drag queens singing in the subway tunnels, tourists, people wandering around half naked, college age kids moving out here because they think they're going to be the next Brad Pitt or Julia Roberts._

Quinn thought about what LA was versus what she had thought it would be. She had been a small town girl who willingly threw herself in the big city, and she had been oh so very surprised by what she was greeted with. It was such a complete and sudden change that she mentally had to guard herself, time and time again. In Lima, your business was everybody else's business. Out here, you spent so much time trying not to interact with people, unless it was the right people, then you would do anything, literally anything, to get noticed.

_**Emily:** Probably everything that New York has, LA has._

_**Nohbdy:** Nah, every city's a little different. Californian's are weird._

_**Emily:** Have you ever been to LA?_

_**Nohbdy:** No. But I should. I have a friend that lives there._

_**Emily:** Is she a celebrity._

_**Nohbdy:** Would you believe me if I said yes?_

_**Emily:** Probably not. What's her name? Is she famous?_

_**Nohbdy:** Getting to be. Right now she's more of a niche actress._

_**Emily:** Who is it?_

_**Nohbdy:** I don't name drop._

_**Emily:** Everybody name drops._

_**Nohbdy:**  Which makes it good I'm Nohbdy then, huh? So which actress are you?_

_**Emily:** You probably wouldn't have head of me. I'm more of an emerging actress. I work enough for it to be my profession, not enough to see my face on billboards._

_**Nohbdy:** Try me, I might...oooh, are you Emma Stone? Emily could be her birth name, right? Hot damn, have I been talking to Emma Stone all of this time? Wait till I tell my mates!_

_**Emily:**  Is that the kind of woman you're into?_

_**Nohbdy:** Dude, who's not into her? She's hot!_

_**Emily:** Blonde or red headed?_

_**Nohbdy:**  She was a brunette at one time, too, and I told you, it doesn't matter. A box of dye goes a long way._

_**Emily:** I'm not Emma Stone._

_**Nohbdy:** Bummer._

_**Emily:**  Do you really think that I'm an actress?_

_**Nohbdy:** Do you really think I'm in a band?_

_**Emily:** If you're not, I think you want to be._

_**Nohbdy:** I am. But it's only because it's familiar. At one point I liked being the center of attention, but then I found that I liked sharing the spotlight a lot better._

_**Emily: I** 'm the youngest. I don't like to share._

_**Nohbdy:** So you're the baby, huh? How many siblings?_

_**Emily:** Just an older sister._

_**Nohbdy:** I used to say that I wanted siblings, but I'm a little glad that I don't have them. No one to compete against for my parent's affections._

_**Emily:** And it would be a competition._

_**Nohbdy:** Who won? You or your sister?_

_**Emily:** She did, always._

_**Nohbdy:** It's healthy to have someone be better than you. At least that's what I hear anyway, I personally wouldn't know because I've never come across someone better than me._

_**Emily:**  Oh, and you were doing so well, too._

_**Nohbdy:** Hey, I'm fierce, and I know it, why not flaunt it?_

_**Emily:** Why not._

Quinn eyes fell to the console, checking the time. She was surprised to see that she had sped through her shift, and it was heading towards the extended hours that she'd been keeping ever since Nohbdy first contacted her.

_**Nohbdy:** Almost time for the sunrise._

Quinn wondered if Nohbdy was thinking the same thing that she was.

_**Emily:** Are we watching it together?_

_**Nohbdy:** Of course._

_**Emily:** We're sitting beside each other on the roof top. Legs dangling over the side, eyes trained to the horizon as the sky lightens around us. We're holding hands, and you've got your head resting on my shoulder. Fighting to keep your eyes awake. I give you a sideways glance, and put my arm around you._

_**Nohbdy:**  I smile, and snuggle closer to you because you're allowing me to, and I get the feeling that you don't normally allow people to do that with you._

Quinn had that watched feeling again, but that wasn't something that Nohbdy could see if she was being stalked, because how in the world would she be able to get inside her head?

_**Emily:** I don't. But I like it, so I hold you closer. I spontaneously place a kiss on your forehead._

_**Nohbdy:** Ooh...kissing on the first date. Me likey._

_**Emily:** What happens when the sun comes up?_

_**Nohbdy:** The world._

Quinn looked back at the clock.

_**Nohbdy:** I guess we've hit that moment when we say good-bye._

Quinn inwardly panicked. She'd had so much time tonight that she hadn't even been aware that time had been passing with them. Quinn honestly didn't want the conversation, the date, to end.

_**Emily:** I guess all good things must come to an end._

_**Nohbdy:** I nudge you because you fell asleep on me, and we stand up and stretch because our limbs have locked from being still for so long. We look at each other, then look back at the new morning, realizing that we stayed out all night._

_**Emily:** It was a great date._

_**Nohbdy:** It was. And when I ask if you want to do this again sometime, you say._

_**Emily:** No._

Nohbdy answers right away. Her answer, apparently, was expected.

_**Nohbdy:** I'm not surprised, but I grimace, and give a nod because even though I knew that's what you'd say, I realize that I'm disappointed, nonetheless._

_**Emily:** It's not because I didn't have a good time, it's because I can't convince myself that this isn't just pretend._

_**Nohbdy:** I know. So we hug, and go our separate ways._

_**Emily:** Are you really single?_

_**Nohbdy:** I am._

_**Emily:** The girls in New York don't know what their missing._

_**Nohbdy:** Sadly. When do you work again, Emsie?_

_**Emily:** Sunday. Same time as always._

_**Nohbdy:** Oh._

Quinn had already sent the link for the chat request when she read Nohbdy's message.

_**Emily:** Oh?_

_**Nohbdy:** I've got a show._

_**Emily:** Oh._

Quinn only had three more of these sessions left, and she was going to have to go through one of them without being able to talk to Nohbdy for one of them.

_**Nohbdy:** When do you work next after that? Wednesday again?_

_**Emily:** Yes._

_**Nohbdy:** Well, I'll talk to you in a week. Sweet dreams, Emsie._

_**Emily:** Goodnight **.**_

Quinn waited for another reply, but she got none. That fact made her sad. She printed out the conversation on her way out of the door, and ended up rereading it at least three times again that day.

 


	7. Coffee

Santana stopped at the sight of Thalia leaning casually against the wall when she turned the corner to Fats studio. Thalia shifted when she heard Santana's footsteps on the hall, but didn't look up until Santana was only a few feet away. She smiled, meeting Santana's curious gaze, and Santana couldn't help but smile back. "What are you doing here?"

Thalia showed her the cardboard cup holder tray that had two cups of coffee firmly stuffed into it. "I wanted to see the magic." She nodded at the coffee. "This is just the excuse."

Santana struggled with the sudden urge to learn forward and kiss her, a feeling that surprised her greatly. Yeah, she had her random flings often enough, but finding herself actually attracted to someone who was more than just a one night stand, that surprised her. Thalia's soft eyes regarded her, unchallenging, but they flashed as if they might know the depths that Santana's eyes obscured.

Instead of either of them acting on Santana's impulse, Santana moved forward and reached for the coffee cup, giving a grateful smile. "Thanks, I could really use this."

Thalia reached for Santana's hand, and Santana surprised herself again when she let her hand intertwine with Thalia's. "You're welcome."

They entered the studio, still holding hands. Fats was behind his equipment, and a few of the band members were warming up. "Auntie, see now I thought you were going to dip out on me again!"

Santana looked over at Thalia. "Not this time."

Fats looked, too, and he smiled. "Welcome back, Ms. Lady."

Thalia gave Santana's hand a squeeze. "Thank you. Good to see you again, Fats!"

"Oh, shoot, you know you're welcome any time. Some of the boys are missing, but if you want to help me with the sound set up." Santana quickly agreed, dropping Thalia's hand, not even glancing back as she rushed over to the soundboard, and Thalia meandered toward the musicians starting up a conversation.

Santana had a little trouble concentrating, every now and then glancing over at Thalia, who didn't seem to have any trouble keeping herself occupied. At one point she was seated behind the drums, and was listening avidly as the eager band mate was trying to walk her through playing them.

"Does someone have your nose open," Fats teased at her elbow.

Santana gave a glance over before looking back at Thalia. "I wouldn't take it that far," she said, not taking her eyes off of the other woman. "There's just possibility there."

Fats gave a nod. "That right there is a good woman; I wouldn't spend too much time thinking about it."

Santana thought about Fats words as the band warmed up, and as she got started, every now and then her eyes flickering over to where Thalia was, surprised that no matter where she moved about the room, she was able to keep up with her. But then they actually started for the afternoon, and work instantly chased the thoughts of Thalia out of her head, as she thought about the song she was singing, and who the song was about.

Fats had taken her simple melody, and layered it. She could still distinguish her original piece underneath it all, but he had worked it over so that it was still simplistic, but more complex. It was like wine. The grapes, Santana's melody, was at the base, but Fat had added hints of mint, wood, and freesia to the bouquet. The result was something that, coupled with Santana's voice, made something that was truly breath taking.

Santana stayed happily in her own little world while they did the actual recording, the band outside of her little isolation booth, the melody playing inside her head. She knew, after the fourth attempt, that it was solid, just like that.

When she came out of the booth, Fats smile confirmed it. He slapped hands with her. "That's how you do it, miss. That's how you do it!"

Even some of the band members were smiling.

"Are you going to let me air it on the show?"

Santana hesitated because it wasn't really fair to her band mates. Yeah, she was making a solo album, but they were a band, a team. Her album was for her, it wasn't chasing fame.

"Let me talk it over with my mates, first?"

"Already, no problem."

"Thanks for working me in, Fats."

"Any time you come to work, no problem, Auntie. But it's early. Since the bands here, why don't we take a crack at that song you've been working on?"

Santana blushed. "Oh come on, Fats."

"No, don't come on. You've got a full studio band, tuned to your sound, you going to waste that."

"It's not finished."

"So let's get it done!"

Once again, Santana's eyes found Thalia. "You don't mind, do you?"

"I never mind as long as there's music being made."

Santana may have fallen just a little in love with the girl right there. She turned to the band and explained. "I've got this idea for the song. It like starts off like an old school lounge song, you know. Like it starts with a kick drum. Like a door opening. But the whole thing stays mellow."

Santana continued to explain, and she didn't know if she was making sense, but she got nods so maybe she was. "Why don't you sing for a bit," the guy on the trumpet said, "and we'll see what's what."

Santana nodded.

"Okay. _She walks in, at a quarter past 10, as I was drinking my love away._ Each shot that I drowned, just got me down, and I just keep seeing her walk away. But then she took the stage, smiled my way, and said, "What do you need me to play. I said, What do you know? She said a little rock, and blues, but for you, you need some soul. With each word she sang, she was talking straight to me, and washing away the pain. Unrequited love, or something sort of, it all meant all the same. Because she makes being lonely, she makes being lonely, she makes being lonely not hurt so much tonight. It's still in progress, but there it is."

The words were barely spoken when the band started playing, piece by piece as each of the musicians caught up with the statement. Santana closed her eyes for a second as the instrumentals played. She could see it so clearly in her head, sitting in a bar, drinking away a bad relationship, and falling in love with the singer who was making it not hurt so bad. She wanted this song so bad that she didn't mind when people suggested changes to the lyrics. As the night wore on she realized that it stopped being her song hours ago, that she wasn't the only one who had ever experienced that. She wondered if any of her songs had soothed an audience member's broken heart.

"So tell me about her," Thalia directed, while the band was packing up their instruments. It caught Santana off guard and left her sputtering.

"About who?" Santana questioned, although she knew who Thalia was talking about. She just felt the need to buy herself some time. They moved out into the hallway, taking up space on the couch that was there.

"The temporary girl."

"Oh. Her."

Santana didn't pick up jealous vibes from her, just simple curiosity. She gave a shrug, trying to make it seem like it didn't matter. "It was a one-night stand."

"That you can't get off your mind."

"The song isn't really about any one night in particular, it's just about a one night stand. It's kind of a universal theme. I mean even if you never had a one night stand, just about everyone can relate to having that one experience that they wish lasted longer than it did. Haven't you?"

Thalia smiled brightly. "Of course I have. But that's because I never want things to end."

Santana smiled along with the woman. It was infectious. Thalia was infectious. She was pretty much the entire package. If you had to combine Brittany, Quinn, and even Rachel and Mercedes into one person, Thalia was what you'd get, but different. The same, and different all at the same time. But she wasn't perfection, she wasn't untouchable or unapproachable. She was so ridiculously down to earth that it was surreal.

"Her name's Quinn."

Thalia waited for Santana to continue, and when she didn't right away she prodded her with a gentle smile. "Well, tell me about her."

"We slept together," Santana blurted ineloquently. "Once." Santana stared down at her cup, fidgeting it's, it's not even like it was mind blowing or anything, it was just," she tried to find the worlds, and couldn't which is why she had written so many songs that danced around it, but didn't really hit it. _Temporary_ _girl_ so far was the one that had come the closest.

"It's stupid, I know. She doesn't even think about me half as much as I think of her. Or at all probably. We never even really liked each other. I don't mean like like-like, but just the regular kind. We've been really mean to each other. She dimed me out about my boob job, I abandoned her when she got pregnant, and both of us did it for the same reason."

Santana shook her head. All of that was years ago. She should be able to forget about it, forget about her. They had known each other for a small amount of time. Quinn had been out of her life longer than she had been in it. They had spent most of the time that they knew each other arguing, trying to one up each other. I mean how well did they really know about each other, anyway? They were never real friends; they were Facebook friends, and not even really that.

What they were doing now could hardly be called keeping in touch. Santana could still remember, a year after Quinn had given everyone he royal kiss off, making the decision to cut ties. If Quinn didn't want to carry her past with her, she didn't want to be the one to hang on, so she unfriended her and didn't think much about it until a week later when Quinn sent a friend request. For a few days Santana wondered if Quinn checked on her often, or she just so happened to choose that moment to check her Facebook for the first time, and noticed somehow that Quinn and Santana were no longer friends? Santana sent a message that was never returned, and even without verbal communication, the message was clear: Quinn was alive and didn't want anything to do with her past, but she still wanted someone to know that she was alright. And that someone was oddly Santana.

For a few years that thought comforted her, that Quinn was still with her in a way. That she hadn't disappeared off the face of the planet. But now Santana wondered if it was just a way to keep someone holding on to her.

"Have you ever been with someone, and you just suddenly realized that it could be more? And the idea is just so appealing to you, that you can't help but imagine what it would have been like."

Thalia gave her a pointed look. "Yes. I have."

Santana missed the look because she wasn't looking at Thalia. "What'd you do about it."

Thalia placed a hand under Santana's chin to make her look at her. "I brought her a cup of coffee."

It clicked about two seconds before Thalia's lips touched hers. It was soft, and gentle, and undemanding, just like Thalia. Santana pulled back, though.

"I'll only break you with my love."

"You know what your problem is, Santana? You don't think that you're worth the effort. I'm trying to tell you right now that you are."

"I think I'm still in love with a 'could be'."

Thalia kissed her sweetly. "That's okay. You're not the only one, who's ever had a broken heart. There's nothing that says we can't figure this out together. Why should anybody have to be lonely?"

For a brief second her mind drifted away towards Quinn, to where ever she was in the world, before she took Thalia's hand.

* * *

A/N: A brief little update for you. More coming soon.


	8. Ohio

 

_Rachel played with the dials of her iPod, finally seeming to be satisfied as a smile broke out over her face and she pressed play. As the sound of an orchestra gearing up started to pour from her car's speakers, Quinn inwardly grimaced over her girlfriend's choice of travel music, though she couldn't honestly say she was surprised. She knew first hand that Broadway musicals weren't the only thing that Rachel had on her iPod, but there was definitely an overabundance of them, and Rachel would think that the perfect thing for their hour and a half trip would be an hour and a half long musical._

_Rachel sat beside her, expectant, as an electric guitar, drums and a definitely rockfish beat started to fill the car. Quinn's eyebrow quirked, and for two seconds she had hope, but then the first song of the musical started, and she realized that the subtle quirkiness of the Overture carried over into the whole musical she was being forced to listen to (and Rachel would play the whole musical)._ Oh dear god, shoot me. _She would have said the words out loud, but she didn't want to give Rachel the satisfaction of knowing that her over indulgence in stage plays meant that Quinn actually recognized what was playing at only a few notes: Seussical: The Musical. (Luckily for her, the show was a little too 'urban' and not as musical as her girlfriend liked so they hadn't listened to this particular musical_ that _much. Quinn suspected that the real reason Rachel even liked this particular musical at all was because the message of the musical was that a person was a person no matter how small)._

_With the music settled, Quinn started the car, and Rachel automatically reached for her hand, intertwining their fingers together. With the absence of songs that Rachel could belt out, Rachel made simple conversation, and before Quinn knew it, they were in Columbus. As the VW Beetle pulled to a stop, Rachel squeezed Quinn's hand, smiling brightly at her. The utter happiness and love that Rachel radiated at her stole her breath away, and Quinn realized that she loved this girl so very much._

_Rachel held onto her, barely releasing her hand to get out of the car because Quinn promised that she could have her completely for the whole day, and Rachel was going to milk it for all it was worth. Even though they weren't far enough away from Lima for Quinn's liking, she said that they would be open about them, if only for one day, and she meant it. So she gripped Rachel's hand fiercely, pulling her towards her, and kissing her, right in front of Quinn's modest Bug. The look that Rachel gave as they pulled apart let Quinn know that the girl would belong to her forever._

_As soon as they pulled apart, Rachel was dragging her towards a stage in the middle of the park for some Shakespeare In the Park festival that Rachel was crazy about going to. They were supposed to be there for hours, but it was like they had only just sat down together on a shaded grassy spot before Rachel was pulling her into a lounge bar, and herding her towards a corner booth._

_Quinn frowned at the choice of venue. It didn't really seem to fit with her light and bubbly girlfriend, especially on their 'out' in public' day. Rachel seemed to want to soak up the fact that Quinn was willing to let as many people as possible see that they were together, and yet, here they were, practically in the dark. They were seated off in the back, with only the candles on the table, and a bare lightbulb casting only the faintest light upon them._

_It wasn't just that people couldn't see them that struck her as odd. The whole vibe of the place was off. It was dim and dingy, the floor was noticeably sticky; their feet stuck a little with every step. There was smoke in the air, and Rachel didn't say one word about that or the pack of cigarettes on the table before them that Quinn's fingers curved almost possessively around. The crowd seemed older, too. There was no one in here that was around their age, and they were all dressed in a more adult manner. There was a stage, but Quinn highly doubted that Rachel's kind of music was what this place specialized in, and it definitely didn't seem like there was karaoke. Around them, people sat and stood holding glasses that were filled with alcohol, waiting for the main act to start._

_Rachel placed a hand down on top of hers. Quinn turned to give her her attention, but the noise suddenly rose. Curious, Quinn shifted to see what the sudden cause of the change in the air was._

_A figure, an extremely familiar silhouette, passed beneath the spotlight that was trained on the center of the stage. "Is that-," her voice was carried away as the silhouette moved to sit on an awaiting bar stool. Everything about this girl screamed a familiarity that Quinn couldn't place. Even the way she sat on the stool, one leg cocked in a half standing, half sitting kind of fashion. The person, girl, woman, reached out an arm to bring the mike stand towards her, pulling it down just enough for her to reach the microphone, but kept one hand on the stand, and didn't release it, even after she had pulled the mic from the stand, simply held on to the stand with her right hand, while palming the microphone in her left._

_"How are you all doing tonight?" The voice was smoky, low, sensual, familiar, but kind of faded from the voice that Quinn was used to hearing. Quinn stared hard, trying to see more clearly. "Rachel, I think that's Santana!"_

_She leaned forward, to get a better view, but at that moment the crowd pushed forward, and they were already so far from the stage. "Rachel?"_

_Quinn realized that her companion was no longer beside her. "Rachel?" she questioned in confusion. Where did she go? Wasn't she just here? Quinn scooted on the seat towards the edge of the booth, but then the singing started and stopped her in her tracks, "_ Well, sometimes I go out by myself, and I look across the water _."_

 _Quinn's attention was back to the stage…that_ had _to be Santana. What were the odds that someone who seemed to resemble her, was singing that song? But what was she doing in Columbus? Did she sneak out on the weekends to be a lounge singer? That…made absolutely no sense whatsoever._

_Impatient and needing answers, Quinn got to her feet. The crowd pushed in, crowing together more. "Excuse me." Quinn's voice didn't produce any result so she added her head cheerleader snap to it, and to her surprise it still didn't produce the result she was expecting. The sea didn't part for her. She actually had to push her way through the crowd, sometimes rather forcefully. She didn't realize there had been so many people or that the stage had been so far away, but it took several songs for her to make any headway._

_Just as she got close enough to the stage to almost see the singer, to make out the features, to prove that this woman was Santana, the woman stood and waved. "Thank you. You've been great tonight."_

_The woman turned to leave. Quinn couldn't let her. She climbed up the steps to the stage, chasing after the woman. "Santana?"_

_The woman's speed picked up. "Santana, wait, it's Quinn!"_

_She followed after her, not gaining any speed on the woman in front of her until suddenly…she turned. She didn't stop moving, though, just started dancing backwards, smile on her face, as she started to sing, "I know it's late, I know you're weary,"_

_The voice belonged to Rachel, but that movement had to be, "Santana?"_

_"I know your plans, don't include me,"_

_The woman giggled, and disappeared behind a door. It took Quinn almost a minute to get to the spot where she disappeared. The door was left open. Bracing herself, she stepped into the dark void…and found herself on a roof top. She stepped fully out, surprised. She was almost certain that the buildings that surrounded her weren't Columbus. If she didn't know better, she would have sworn it was New York._

_"30 minutes to the sunrise." A voice greeted her from the shadows. Quinn startled. She didn't immediately turn to seek out the speaker, instead looking off into the distance to see that the woman was telling the truth: through the lightening sky the faintest pink could be seen just peeking out. "Why don't you stay?"_

_It wasn't a question, and Quinn found herself drawn to the voice. There was a blanket laid out on the dirty roof top, a shadow in the form of a person sitting on top of it, with space for Quinn to sit next to her. For once, Quinn didn't seem worried about where Rachel was, or what she was doing. She sat down beside the woman. Quinn turned to her, but still couldn't make out her features in the dark._

_"Why don't you stay, Quinn?" The voice was no longer recognizable, but the question was unmistakable. She had heard it uttered too many times before. Rachel's bed wasn't the only one that she had crawled out of._

_Quinn shrugged. "I-I don't know," she finally admitted. "I want to."_

_Three things happened if not at once, in really quick secession: the door to the roof top opened, and Rachel stood framed in the door, the shadows lightened, and she was suddenly looking into a very broad smile of a woman who had no face, and whispered the word, "No," and Quinn's alarm clock went off. She woke up from the dream she didn't even know she'd been having, fisting the sheets of a bed that she was in all by herself._

Quinn needed alcohol. In the absence of that, she settled for coffee. As she waited for her cup to brew, her nails tapped restlessly on the counter top, her eyes taking in the small kitchen of her home. She felt jittery, and unsettled, off balance, and lonely. Oh so fucking lonely. It wasn't a new feeling for her; that loneliness. Sure she had managed to stave it off every now and then during high school. Glee had helped a lot, Rachel had helped a lot, but in between there had been those times. Like when she was pregnant with Beth, and Rachel had left her because apparently her cheating on her girlfriend, and her fake boyfriend, with his best friend, and getting pregnant…had been too much for even the devout girl to handle. Santana, too, had abandoned her, taking Brittany along in her wake. Her popularity had disappeared just as quickly.

Or when she was alone on senior skip day, with Artie Abrams of all people, a boy who wasn't even a senior, and whom Quinn would have never given a second thought to, if she hadn't suddenly been thrust into his world. She had been alone, then, too, because even though Rachel had come barging back into her world after the accident, it was with those sad brown eyes that were begging her broken ex-girlfriend to be okay with the fact that she had actually fallen in love with Finn. Quinn hadn't thought it was possible, but Rachel had grown tired of waiting for her to make up her mind, and the boy that she had initially started flirting with just to make Quinn pay for her indecisiveness, had ended up stealing her heart. And she really had no one to blame that on, but herself.

It was not a good day for Quinn. Dark hair and eyes seemed to follow her everywhere she went, and her dream hung over her like a dense fog she couldn't shake. She insisted on going to church, and during prayers, and whenever else she closed her eyes for more than a few seconds, scenes from her dream floated to her. The analytical part of her mind wanted to figure out what the dream had meant. Did it mean that she was wavering in her tireless devotion of mourning the loss of what could have been the only love of her life? Was she getting over this obsession she had with Rachel? Was she replacing her obsession with Rachel on this mystery caller who for some reason kept coming back every night? But that didn't make sense because her mystery caller didn't remind her of her one time girlfriend.

And then there was the Santana element of the dream. She understood where the logic of that was. She hadn't thought about Santana much in six years, but suddenly this mystery person, this nobody, had her thinking almost constantly about the woman. Had her wanting to call her almost as much as she wanted to take her next drink, which was confusing in her mind.

Quinn had never spent too much time, or any, psychoanalyzing why she had hopped into bed with Santana that night. She was pretty certain that the reason was clear: Santana was a warm body who never said no. She and Rachel were similar enough in height, size, and hair color. Santana's eyes and hair were darker, but in the dim light that would have been near impossible to tell, and Santana's break up with Brittany meant that Santana was lonely enough to agree. She and Quinn had never been the best of friends to each other, so using the other for one night wasn't outside of either of their boundaries.

They hadn't shared eye contact the entire time they'd had sex the first time, which hadn't surprised Quinn at all (and in all honestly, she had been incredibly impressed that Santana hadn't called Brittany's name when she climaxed). It wasn't surprising, either, that apparently Santana was as good in bed as she always claimed to be. Everything else, though, _had_ been a surprise. From the feel of the way she was touched, rougher than Rachel but more tender than she was expecting, to the fact that not only had Santana not rushed to get out of the bed afterwards, but that she had asked Quinn to stay. It was Quinn's hotel room, so of course she was going to stay, but Santana had meant in her arms. And Quinn obliged.

Every so often during that night, Quinn had wondered if Santana forgot who was in the bed with her, because she was oddly gentle, holding her softly, the way a lover might, letting her fingers trail over her skin. She didn't look at her in adoration, the way Rachel had. Santana wasn't worshipping her. She was just laying herself bare in front of Quinn, letting Quinn do with it what she wanted. In return, Quinn did the same. She decided in that minute, she wanted someone who truly knew her, because not even Rachel had.

They had talked, not like lovers, but in a way they had never really talked during their relationship. Santana admitted that breaking up with Brittany was possibly the dumbest and most devastating thing she had ever done, and Quinn admitted that she was still in love with Rachel. Confessions came like a ping-pong ball at a table tennis match. Santana admitted that she had no idea what she was going to do in her future, Quinn confessed that the idea of the future she was headed towards scared her. In a moment of weakness, or maybe it was foreplay, Santana admitted to letting her eyes drift over Quinn's naked form back when they were cheerleaders and in the locker rooms changing together, and Quinn confessed that she couldn't keep her eyes off of Santana's ass in the Cheerios skirts. Quinn informed her about the three years that Rachel and she had been dating. Santana quietly whispered that she didn't want Brittany back.

Quinn had met her eyes when she said this, and said nothing, just staring at Santana, not knowing what she would say if she did speak.

Quinn sat with a very unhappy Mel Simple through two hours of a church sermon that was about helping your fellow man and giving your problems up to God. "I don't think he wants them, either," Quinn muttered under her breath, causing Mel to look over at her, a curious expression on his face. Mel really wasn't needed for the day because Frankie only had two simple things to do, but Quinn was sure that Mel either didn't trust her even that little, or he was incredibly lonely, and didn't want to spend a Sunday by himself. But that may have been Quinn projecting her own loneliness.

She realized she knew very little about his personal life, and she wanted to keep it that way. She didn't really want to have another person in her life that she had to pretend to care about.

"Angelika and I have been talking," Mel had the decency to wait until the sermon was over to inform her. "After your community service is finished, we think that it would be a great idea if you started attending some MADD meetings."

The notion was absurd. "I'm not a mother."

"No," Mel agreed. "But we both think that it would be a good idea to see that you take a firm stance against drunk driving."

"No," Quinn snapped. "One, Mel, you are my personal assistant, not my agent, and not my manager. Your input is not needed on my personal life. Two, I'm not going to sit through and listen to a bunch of people talk about how drunk driving ruined their lives. I get it, being behind the wheel of a car with alcohol in your system is _bad_. I'll call a cab, Uber, or Lyft from her on out. But seriously, no one died, though, and for the last fucking time, the kid ran into me! How does that turn this into a reflection of my poor driving choices, and not hers?"

Mel's mouth opened, "And I swear if you say that it was because I had a beer can in my hand, I will fire you on the spot. I'm not kidding."

Mel's mouth closed, but his look clearly said that he seriously doubted she would do that, and Quinn wanted to, just to prove him wrong. But she needed him. "So thank you, seriously thank you for your input, Mel, but please stick to the things in your purview."

Mel huffed and got into his SUV. Quinn realized that he wasn't actually going to open the door for her.

"Being a chauffeur isn't in my purview!" Mel called through the closed window. Quinn sighed, opening her own door and sliding into the seat beside him.

The need for a drink didn't dissipate throughout the day, and it made Quinn wonder when drinking became like air for her. Certainly she hadn't always been this bad. She'd made it all through high school with only indulging a couple of times, to some fabulously disastrous results. Even when she was in her skank days, she didn't really drink: she got high a lot and smoked a lot of cigarettes, but drink, no. Then there was college. The professor would give her a glass of wine to entice her to go down on him, and being at Yale was sometimes so confusing to her. She felt like a total lush at Mr. Schue's wedding. And Santana. And after Santana. Then Finn's death, and her and Puck getting back together.

She had done surprisingly little drinking when she and Puck were together. She didn't have to get drunk to talk about her shit, because Noah already knew all of it. Somehow, despite that he was the exact opposite of who her prince charming was supposed to be, he fit so well in her life. They might have worked out, they really might have. Quinn already had a feel for what their children would look like, and the military was rounding Puck out nicely. She didn't know why it didn't work, she really didn't. Just that it didn't, and no one had been more surprised than she was. But she'd had a small panic attack right before their break up, and she used everything as an excuse to break away from it all.

Quinn was halfway to Hollywood before she even realized that's where she was going. She told herself she was going to see Mercedes. And she did. But she never left. She was tempted to move to New York when Mercedes did, but she didn't see herself on the east coast anymore. If she stayed east she would become everything that she hated, so she stayed in the land of sunshine and make believe, and found herself going to parties, and eating through the student loan that she wasn't using on tuition.

But the drinking, the drinking every day, the drinking that would label her as an alcoholic came about nine months ago, ater a Hollywood party that she didn't even want to go to, and still wished like hell that she never had. That's when all the memories came back in full force, that's when Rachel became like this ghost that she couldn't shake. Before she was just this person that she thought about every now and then, but then she became an obsession, and Quinn didn't know how to live with ghosts.

That's how Quinn ended up on the UCLA campus, taking step number 152…151…150…149 down into the basement of the Psychology department where it wasn't until a week and a half ago, that she felt like she made a really true connection with someone for the first time in more than five years. She started down the steps eagerly, and it wasn't until she hit step 131 that she remembered that Nobody wasn't waiting for her at the bottom. Still she sat down at her station, pulled her ear piece to her, and waited for the desperate and destitute to get in contact with her. She wouldn't admit that she was hoping that Nobody would show up, even though she said she wouldn't.

It was the longest shift of her life.

* * *

 

Toledo, OH

Santana finished up in the bathroom, and went to wash her hands. She looked at her reflection in the grimy mirror. It had been a long weekend for the woman, but instead of feeling drained, she felt pumped. Not too soon after she left Fats studio, they were in Pittsburg. Friday and Saturday they played a total of three gigs in Pittsburgh and one in Akron, and today they had two gigs, one in Cleveland, and their last in Toledo at an after-hours club. Santana tried not to think of it as touring. That would make all of this too real. She yawned, but fixed a smirk to her face, reaching into her purse to pull out her compact to touch up her make up. Her fingers brushed against a pamphlet. Santana pulled it out, sitting it on the counter in front of her. Her fingers itched.

She pulled out the phone. _Just to say 'hi'._ She went looking through her email for the link. The door was pushed open a little bit. "What's taken so long, Lopez? You dropping a turd in there? We're back on."

Santana grunted at the crudeness of her bandmate, shook her head, and stuffed her compact and phone back into her purse, leaving the pamphlet for The Lighthouse sitting on the bathroom counter.


	9. Turn around (bright eyes)

Santana was jostled awake, by someone sitting down on the seat beside her. "What?" she mumbled unintelligently.

"Wake you?" Reese questioned.

The hard earned sleep that Santana had won was thoroughly shattered. "What the fuck do you think?" she demanded, angry at being brought out of her dream.

"Language, love."

"Fuck off."

Reese chuckled. "Must have knocked you out of a tasty wet one, huh?"

"Who the hell has a wet dream after puberty?" Santana was contemplating murder. "What do you want?"

"Tsk tsk. Why are you testy?"

Santana was about to spout off on an angry tirade but then she actually considered the question with a little more thought than Reese probably intended. She had absolutely no reason to be testy at the moment, besides the lack of sleep. Life was surprisingly going good for her for the first time in a long time. She had missed talking to 'Emily', but other than that? She took a glance outside at the landscape passing by, as they headed back to New York. She was the closest she had been to Lima in years, and maybe that was it.

"Weird being so close to home, and not, you know?" She posed rhetorically. "Know what I mean?"

Reese's shoulder bumped hers. "No, actually." She looked him over, from his blonde, curly hair, to his blue eyes, and across the faded blue surf shirt that she knew hid an amazing beach body. He was good looking, but his looks were startling, even if she was getting used to them by now. "Don't really have a home," he clarified. "I've been all up and around this world since I was old enough to pull my britches up myself."

"Britches? Is that even a word?"

Reese ignored her. "Home, for me, is whatever ground is rolling underneath me at the moment. You're from Ohio, right?"

"Lima, yeah."

"Where about is that?"

"Nowhere."

"That's profound, mate. Real profound."

Santana squared up, turning towards him. "Seriously, no one is profound without sleep. Why the conversation?"

He smiled widely. "I'm so fucking blitzed!" he admitted. "Took somethin' to keep me up for the late night, and now I can't sleep. Totally wired right now, and I know how much you like to catch the sunrise so I thought we could share."

There was silence as the two of them rocked slightly to the motion of the bus. Reese sucked his bottom lip into his mouth. "I miss me mum, alright? We used to…watch them together. That Rebecca chick, you always sing about? Well, my dad, he…ah…he spent his whole life searching for her, you know? Me mum, she split on us when I was five, and dad got the brilliant idea that she just needed someone to prove that they would go to the ends of the earth for her, so that's what he did. That's my childhood. Chasing after a woman that didn't want to be found."

Reese moved a hand to run through curls too tangled to effectively run his fingers through. "Don't even know why I'm telling you this cause now it kind of ruins my mysterious persona, but there you have it. Oh, and Grove wants to set up a meet with the Alt Records. I know we talked about all being on board, but you've been holding out on us, and he's kind of anxious, you know? What's up, Snix?"

Santana thought about her misgivings, but since none of them were based on anything other than feelings, she didn't express them, even if Reese was particularly open minded right now. She didn't want to be _that_ girl.

"Nothing."

"Great, so we can move forward, yeah?"

"Yeah."

Reese pumped his fist but didn't move from beside her. "Something else?"

"We've known each other for what? Three years?"

"Four."

"Long time," he mumbled. "So, I kind of always, but I didn't want to ask, cause you know I kind of like you and all, but you realize you're better than this band, right?"

"No one's better than the band," Santana said, immediately.

Reese 'pshaed' her words. "Okay, let me say it different. You don't need us to be great, but the rest of us need each other. Know what I mean? You don't need us."

Santana bit down on her finger, worrying the hang nail that just didn't want to separate from her skin. "I love the band, Reese."

"And fuck, you're a hot piece of eye candy that Grove loves to trot out, and you know I love you, why do you think I give you so many of my leftovers?"

"Hah! _You're_ leftovers. If anyone's eating next day lay abouts, it's you."

"Point being, you're a fucking enigma, and hell, some people aren't meant to be an ensemble. Why do you think Michael stopped fucking around with the other Jacksons?"

Santana winced as she bit too deeply into her skin, separating it. She removed the finger from her mouth. "Fat Geo at KTIX wants to play one of my singles on the radio."

"And you haven't jumped on that shit?"

"What if it changes things?"

Reese shrugged, slipping down further on the seat. "Isn't that the point?"

Santana slept through their rest breaks, and so by the time they got back to the city, her bladder was fit to burst, and she stayed on the bus to relieve it, as the guys were unpacking. She came back to notice that she had a couple of texts. She fired one off to Brittany, updated the bands pages, and stared at the text from Thalia that was sent five hours ago, _**Dinner tonight, my place**_ **? 7:00-ish.** Before she actually responded, _**Just got back into town. What do you want**_ **?**

She smiled at the quickly typed, **Surprise me** _ **.**_

At 7:00, on the dot, Santana pushed the button on the call box of Thalia's modest lower Manhattan apartment. As she waited to be buzzed up, she took a second to appreciate the digs. It wasn't an 'I _have arrived'_ apartment, but it firmly said, ' _I'm getting there'._ No doorman, but the lobby was impressive, and modern, and the occupants had a very cosmopolitan stride to their walk. It was so different from the first floor apartment that she and Brittany kind of shared, or the crap apartment that Lou lived in. Stacks, on the other hand, lived in an apartment that he could barely afford, and Reese lived in a RENT style loft that he shared with three other roommates, all of which let Santana grab couch whenever she needed to. After Lou, she could count on Reese to always have a place for her to crash. Didn't mean he wouldn't question her on why she hadn't gotten her own place, yet, every time, though.

The door was unlocked when Santana reached Thalia's door, and Thalia turned to her expectantly, propping herself up on her knees. "What'd you get?" she questioned, eagerly.

Santana smiled at her enthusiasm, feeling a strange warmth at her greeting. "Chinese, Gummi Worms, and _The Land Before Time_." The movie had been a spontaneous pick as she was checking out in Target.

"No way!" Thalia said, eyes bright, but she quickly reigned in her enthusiasm. "Which one?"

She smiled at Thalia's slight frown, anticipating the smile her answer would earn. "The original."

She only got to view her reward for a few seconds before she got an armful of Thalia and felt her lips on hers. "Oh my god, I love you." She pecked her again. "I can't believe you remembered!"

Santana rolled her eyes. "Please. There's only five cartoons you like to watch." She ticked them off confidently. " _A Goofy Movie, Toy Story, Atlantis, The Lion King,_ and, of course _The Land Before Time. Y_ ou hate sequels, prequels, and remakes, and you love getting your own bag of gummi worms, because you always had to share growing up, and your brother would always eat the green/red ones himself. How on _earth_ could I forget?"

Thalia pecked her again. "You're perfect." She drew back, lightly tapping Santana on the nose. She stood up to relieve Santana of her bags, and ushered her to the couch as she took the purchases into the kitchen. "What are you doing?" Santana called after her retreating form. Santana angled herself towards the kitchen, amused as she watched Thalia pull plates down. So much about her hadn't changed that it was nice, being here with her like this. "Thal, you don't have to plate the food. We can eat from the containers!"

Predictably she heard the girl's laugh come from the next room. "Most of my food may come to me in containers, but the least I can do is feel civilized while I'm eating it."

A few minutes later Thalia came back with full black stone plates and sat one in front of Santana and one on the coffee table beside her. She left and came back with matching gauntlet-like mugs, plastic chopsticks, and two forks. They shared a smile before the movie was turned on, and they dug into their meal, casually eating off of each other's plates.

"So, catch me up," Thalia said, playfully. Their food had been pushed aside, their glasses were nearly empty, and they were relaxing with Thalia's legs spread across Santana's lap. It had been awhile since Santana had felt at peace, like this, and her racing mind was oddly quiet. Her fingers traced the outline of the tattoo that was curved around Thalia's calf. "This is new," she remarked, leaning in closer to make out the tattoo more clearly.

"New to you," Thalia corrected. "I got that about four years ago."

Santana tried to make out the image in the white and red ink. "It's…"

"A whale." Santana's fingers traced over the character as Thalia spoke. "Swimming through Ivy Vines."

Her description of the tattoo was far too simplistic for the intricate yet understated design that started a little at her ankle and curved upwards. The whale, and the whole tattoo actually, had a very Polynesian/Hawaiian look to it. It was perhaps three feet tall, but despite the amount of real estate it took up, it was thin, no more than two finger lengths thick at any point. It was subtle enough that depending on the cut of the dress, Thalia could still wear a mid-length slit and only the smallest bit of tattoo would show. You had to actually be as close as Santana was to make out the details, and it thrilled her, a little, at the thought of being close enough to her to see this.

"Are you trying to save the whales now?" Santana teased lightly, if for no other reason than to hear the light chuckle that Thalia gave as she said, "It's a reminder."

Santana's fingers were running up and down the length of the tattoo. "Of the impending doom of the planet in the event that we don't change our destructive ways?"

Another chuckle, and Santana mentally added that sound to her list of her favorite things about Thalia. Thalia reached her hand to where Santana's was, and held it. "Have you ever read the Old Man and the Sea?"

"Refresh my memory?"

"Ernest Hemingway. There's this old man,"

"And the sea?"

Where Santana, or Quinn, would have rolled their eyes at Santana's interruption, Thalia somehow managed to convey that same gesture with her lips. "Yes, smarty. There was an old fisherman, who believed that he was unlucky because it had been a long time since he had brought back a fish. One day he goes out to prove that he was just as good as a fisherman as he was in his youth. As he's coming back home for the day, he snags a fish, this huge fish, one impressive enough to prove that he is just as great now, as he used to be. But it's too big. It drags him out to the ocean as he tries to reel it in, and the more he tries, the further away from shore he gets. This goes on, and after a few days he manages to capture the fish. He ties him to the boat, but by the time he gets back to shore, exhausted, drained, and defeated, sharks have eaten the fish, and he comes back with nothing but the skeleton of the fish he caught.

"I wanted a tattoo with meaning, and I grew up on the coast, so that story kind of hit me pretty hard. Everything one ever need to learn about life could be learned from inside a fisherman's net."

"Sage advice."

"I know."

"I like that."

"The story?"

"The image of you, standing on the beach, sea wind whipping your hair about." This earned Santana a kiss. When they pulled apart, Santana was back to looking at her tattoo. "So what's your marlin, Ms .Thalia?"

"So you remember the story?"

"It's coming back to me."

"Fame," Thalia said in answer to Santana's question. "The tattoo is a reminder that chasing a dream is fine, but when things get to the point where I can no longer tell if I'm reeling it in, or it's dragging me out to sea, then it's time to cut the strings before I get so carried away that I lose everything trying to get back."

Thalia's eyes, always so passionate, were even more so at the moment, and Santana could tell that she wasn't just talking to Santana at the moment, but reminding herself. "You know me, I breathe music, and exhale melody. I want this to be my life's passion, but it's not the most important thing in the world, or in life. It's just an important thing to _me_. Music will always be there, even if I'm not making it. It was there before I was born, it will be there after I'm gone."

They fell into a comfortable, contemplative silence that was broken when Santana stated, "A marlin's not a whale."

"No," Thalia agreed. She guided Santana's fingers. "This is the marlin," they trailed down. "And this is the whale. They become each other, see? The whale is in reference to Moby Dick."

"Call me Ishmael."

Again there was the smile that was an eye-roll personified. "To remind me to make sure that I chase my dreams, not demons."

Their eyes met and locked as their fingers connected. Thalia tugged lightly. "You never answered my question."

"Which was?"

"What have you been up to?"

"Ah." Santana sat back, thinking. Her head tilted sideways, causing a curtain of hair to fall over her face, covering half. "I've been working on my album?" she offered after some time had passed.

Thalia nodded, because she knew this. "What's it about?"

"It's my ode to a broken heart?" Santana gave a self-depreciating laugh. "I think it might be so sad that I could give Sam Smith, Adele, and Bruno Mars a proper run for their money."

"Oh, I'm sure you could," Thalia agreed, and it wasn't sarcastic. It was earnest, and it had been so long since that had been in her life, that she didn't really know what to do with it. "It's about that Quinn girl?"

Santana played with Thalia's tattoo, running the tip of her pinky over the lines. "Not entirely. It's," Santana kind of shrugged. "It's me, you know? It's coming to the realization that maybe we are someone that maybe we didn't even know, that some forever loves really aren't forever, and sometimes we fall in love for no particular reason, just because of a maybe. Yeah, it's about my feeling for Quinn, but it's also about my break up with Brittany. She was my best friend in high school, and we don't even really talk anymore. We kind of live together, and I honestly have no clue when was the last time I've even seen her."

She was, in fact, in New York, right this very second, and not only had Santana not even thought about going to see her, but the fact that she was in town meant that Santana would most likely be sleeping at a hotel tonight to ensure that she didn't see her, meant something. All of these things meant something, and Santana wasn't sure what. She hadn't been able to work it out. People seemed to think she was running from something, but how could she be running away if she had remained stationary?

"And it's not just her. It's everybody. It's not…easy for me, to get close to people. I don't make lots of friends, you know? I've got a lot of hard edges that some…most…find hard to take, but I felt like I found a kinship with these kids in high school. We were _family_ , but I don't even keep in contact with them. Rachel, our old co-captain, called me up about a reunion, and all I can think of is a thousand reasons that I don't want to go. She claimed we were family so much that I believed that we would all be in each other's lives forever, but now I think the only thing that's going to be with me forever is the music. I think that's why I've stretched out this album for so long. It's been my life for the last couple of years? What happens once it's over?"

Thalia was silent for so long that Santana wondered if she had lost her with her ramblings. Without a word the woman got up, and disappeared out of the room. She was gone long enough that Santana began to squirm on the couch. Just as she was about to open her mouth, Thalia came back lighting a squat yellow candle. She sat it down on the table between the empty and forgotten plates. It had barely graced the table she left again, humming softly to herself. This time the wait wasn't so long. She came back carrying a guitar, one Santana recognized because she herself had bought it for her on a whim, back when they were broke, and their friendship was just really starting. Thalia had a black notebook in her left hand, pen stuck down in the spiral. She let the notebook fall into Santana's lap, as she sat cross legged across from her on the couch. She tuned the guitar.

"What happens once it's over?" she murmured mostly to herself, but aloud so Santana could hear it. "You play it again," she added nonsensically. "You play it again. You play it again? You flip it over, and play it again."

In a burst of clarity, Santana got it. She opened up the notebook and scribbled down the line. Thalia's strumming apparently picked up a melody because she was no longer plucking out random notes, but she didn't seem to settle on anything, not yet. Frown marks appeared on Thalia's forehead.

"The music is the vehicle, and the song is a relationship," Thalia explained, and Santana agreed and was reminded of the song writing sessions that the two of them used to indulge in, late nights, coffee, wine, and sometimes other recreationals being shared between the two of them. She'd forgotten (and then wondered how she could have), those nights.

Thalia's fingers idled as the words silently were churned in her head. "I've been here so long, my names on the door. I moved in a lifetime of furniture, I've worn grooves in the floor."

Thalia's hands shifted on the guitar, and she repeated the line, "I moved in a lifetime of furniture." The hands moved again, the line was repeated.

Santana chimed in. "No furniture." She sang the line, correcting the one that Thalia was worrying over. " _I moved in a lifetime, and left the grooves in the floor."_ The shortened sentence fit perfectly. Thalia didn't have to say a word for Santana to know how much she liked that wording. Santana wrote it down, and circled it. "It was never meant to last, but yet here I am."

"That should be followed up with your partner saying, ' _I'm here'_."

Santana listened to it in her head, and she agreed. She wrote 'I'm here' in parenthesis. _A duet_? Was written at the top of the page. Even though this was supposed to be her solo album, she liked the idea of an album about solitude and loneliness ending in a duet.

" _It was supposed to be temporary, but I've been here so long, my names on the door, I moved in a lifetime, and left the grooves in the floo_ r."

"On."

"And left the groves _on_ the floor?"

Thalia nodded. "Why did you stay?" she questioned.

 _I didn't_. "Why they stayed isn't important. What's important is how do you leave after you do? Like you were kind of saying earlier: the song will always be there. _She's_ a temporary girl, she makes being lonely not hurt, but it's not real. It's just a shot of whisky before you fall asleep; it's not the end to your loneliness, you know? When you wake up, you're still alone."

Thalia's fingers stilled. "Santana?"

Santana looked up, surprised to see how intently Thalia was looking at her. "You're not alone. I think there are a thousand beautiful things about you, and every one of them is worth knowing."

Santana hadn't really meant to, but she was moving forward, and they were kissing a far deeper kiss than the shallow kisses that they had exchanged so far. The only thing stopping them from going any further, was the guitar between them. When Santana ended up practically on top of it, Thalia laid a gentle hand against Santana's cheek. "Just wanted to tell you that."

They looked away, suddenly shy. Thalia went back to strumming. Santana closed her eyes, and listened to notes that were almost there…almost, but then it was like when you're chain gets loose on your bike, and for a second it goes around, but then the chain connects again, and it catches. What Thalia was stringing together was parts of the two songs that she heard Santana put together, but had somehow also mixed with the feel of the rest of the album.

"The only thing keeping me is memory."

Words came to Santana the same way the notes came to Thalia. "Broken records, for broken roads. Leading to places, no one knows. Where do you go, when you run out of ground?"

"You pick up and turn back around." Without halting her playing, Thalia said, "That's in parenthesis. My line. All my lines are in the background."

Santana did as was directed. She read over the words, and realized that there needed to be something between the memory line and there. Thalia stopped playing for a second, and Santana looked over to see Thalia pulling out her phone. She opened the camera, swiped over to video and started recording. Even still Santana wrote down the chords at the top of the page as a little reminder.

"The only thing keeping me is memory, I hold them close, but still they fade. The break apart like ocean waves, crashing against a broken heart. Saying change."

"Saying change. No wait, stay and change. You say, saying change. I'll echo 'stay and change'."

And so it went, for the next hour, then two, with slight changes to the melody, with them settling on a bridge and chorus. Santana's fingers itched, and she was sure that Thalia's fingers were probably going numb. And like before, she could see it all so clearly in her head. The lyrics filled up the lined pages of the notebook.

" _It was supposed to be temporary, but I've been here so long, my names on the door, I moved in a lifetime, and left the grooves on the floo_ r. _Now the only thing keeping me, is memory. I hold them close, but still they fade. They break apart like waves, crashing against a broken heart. Saying change. (Stay and change). There's broken records, for broken roads, leading to places, no one knows, what do you go when you run out of ground? (You pick up and turn back around). Familiar songs play, on different stations. Different hearts learn how to break when, common ground, isn't enough to save them, anymore. But what do you do when the record you've been moving to, ends? You flip it over, set your feet, learn to dance, and play the song all over again. (Play it again)._

They crashed, punk drunk, a few hours later, and ended up practically crawling into Thalia's bed. There was a kiss to a random body part, before Santana let strong, unfamiliar arms encircle her, holding her close. Just as she was falling off to sleep, she felt words whispered into her ear that made her whimper, but she was too tired to let them sink in before her eyes shut and she was out to the world.

She remembered the words in startling reality in the morning light, when she woke up the next morning, alone in a cold, and unfamiliar bed: _I'm sorry I won't be her when you wake._

Even with the forewarning, it didn't stop the tears from leaking out of her eyes and soaking into a pillow filled with a smell that was just becoming familiar.


	10. Two steps back

Santana curled up around Thalia's lap top, checking herself on the screen while she waited for the call to connect. A few more seconds and a couple of rings later, and she was looking at the smiling face of Thalia, and it briefly made her breathless. "Hey, beautiful. How'd you sleep?"

Santana found herself reciprocating that smile, even as she frowned. "Badly," she admitted. You weren't here when I woke up."

"I know, and I'm sorry about that. Flight first thing in the morning."

Santana attempted to get comfortable on the couch. "Where are you?"

"Copenhagen." She got this look, like she was trying not to squeal. "It's so crazy, right? Like how is this possibly life? Is it totally crazy of me to want to send you a ticket, so you can come be here with me?"

"Not crazy, I'd love that, but I've got gigs, and the band."

"I know! I feel bad that I wasn't there when you woke. I left you a key in the bowl on the table; you can stay there as long as you want."

"Really? You're going to give me free range around your place while you're in another country? You know that I like to go through people's things, right."

"You mean snoop?"

Santana laughed comfortably. "I like to think of it as investigating."

"As long as your investigation doesn't end up on TMZ, we're good. I trust you, Santana."

Santana smiled. She liked that Thalia did. "When are you coming back?"

Thalia's eyes shifted, and Santana could tell that she was checking another screen. "A week from next Friday."

"We'll be south."

"When do you get back?"

"Monday morning."

"I'm supposed to be in Quebec by five that evening. Maybe…maybe we can grab breakfast?"

"Maybe," Santana answered, with no real faith that it would happen.

Thalia picked up on that, easily. "Things are only busy like this until the premiere, and I'll call and talk, and write, and what not. We should set a date, though, so we can record your song."

"Thalia-,"

"Stop it, Santana."

"You don't have to do that."

"I said stop."

"You're an international music sensation, you really want to bring down your rep to do a duet on my CD?"

"Hey, the only reason we stopped singing together is because you left me. I'll always want to sing with you. And I'm not an International Star….yet. If we somehow can't get our schedules to align, I'll record my part separately. I've already emailed Fats the arrangement…," Thalia suddenly frowned. "Oh hey, I've got to go. I'll talk to you soon, okay?"

Santana pouted. "Okay."

Thalia blew a kiss, before the screen went blank. Santana felt pathetic, but she stared back at the blank screen as if it would bring the image of Thalia back to her. Although it broke all of her rules, Santana crawled back into Thalia's bed, and went back to sleep.

* * *

Waking up was not Quinn's best decision. To be fair, falling asleep wasn't that much better, but judging by the way that her brain was pounding against her skull as if it were trying to remove itself from her body, the completely blinding brightness of the room, and the hairy arm that was wrapped around her midsection, waking up was definitely a big mistake. And if the feeling of being dried out from the inside out was any indicator of past deeds, waking up was just one of a series of very bad decisions that she had made in the last 48 hours.

But at least she hadn't dreamed of Rachel.

She felt a press of lips on her neck, and a nose nuzzling her from behind. She stiffened mentally, if not physically. She recognized the thick, dark curls of hair on the arm around her waist, and that, at least, was a bit of a relief: the last thing she wanted to play at this moment was the 'who did I sleep with' game.

Yet…as horrible as that would have been, there was something in the air underlying this familiarity, something that wasn't stale breath, or the residual smell of a recent coupling, or sheets in need of a cleaning. She may not have been wracking her brains trying to figure out who she had gone to bed with last night, but there was still something that was unpleasant all the same. Quinn wanted to escape it, whatever it was, but just shifting on the bed clued her in to how much of a disaster it would be for her to attempt to move any more than that.

She fell back to the bed, somewhat in defeat. At the very least, whatever it was that was hanging over her in the early morning air, while it was definitely not something she wanted to deal with first thing in the morning, or ever, it was sufficiently keeping her mind distracted from the thing that she _really_ didn't want to think about.

The arm tightened around her. "Morning, babe." Quinn grunted her acknowledgment, and Heath chuckled at her discomfort. "You are so not a morning person, Frankie," he chirped. _Heath_ was a morning person. Heath was a night person. Heath was just perky. He was attractive, and looked good in anything, and was kind to puppies and old ladies. She hated him.

Quinn grunted again in response, glowering at a pillow that didn't appreciate the intensity of her glare. She moved inside of the space of Heath's arms, but that little movement sent her stomach reeling and her head pounding. She froze. _Oh god_.

She could feel Heath's morning 'exclamation point' as he seriously called it, (on more than one occasion), letting itself be known. Heath's mouth moved from the back of her neck, and trailed along the expanse of skin, possibly dragging boogers along with it. His hand moved up to cup her breasts, and although she was so _not_ in the mood to be doing this, she didn't want her mind to get the chance to supply her with an answer for why she felt so fucking horrible right now. So she did what she did best: she acted. She moaned on cue, and squirmed (all while trying not to do too much moving), and she pressed kisses into Heath's exposed skin, and pretended to get worked up.

Quinn was a 100% bisexual. She liked sex with guys _and_ she liked sex with girls. At times she even loved sex with either persuasion. She found breasts as attractive as hard chests, and hairy arms just as appealing as smooth faces. When she had sex with either sex she enjoyed it. But she couldn't particularly say that she _loved_ sex with Heath. He was of a decent length, and he was good looking. His breath didn't stink; he didn't have any strange odors. He was as attentive and as kind as any Hollywood playboy, friends with benefits could be, but she never really felt anything _special_ with him. He was great when she was feeling lonely, he let her cuddle, if she needed him for an event he showed, but unless she was just horny, she didn't readily go to him. Today was no exception. She forced her mind to be in the moment, though, to make sure he thought she was in the moment, and when he was satisfied (operative word being he), she smiled when he looked at her, and didn't even mention the fact that she hadn't climaxed.

Heath settled contently beside her, his shoulder brushing hers. He smiled at her smile, and turned, angling himself towards her. "This is nice."

Quinn feigned ignorance. "The sex?"

"The morning."

_Shit._

"I can really see this, Frankie." He leaned up, so he could look at her. "I mean, we're too good looking people, and are both at good points in our career. We're good together. Can't you see it?"

Quinn was saved from having to answer by a sudden, violent, pang to her gut. She stumbled from the bed, confirming that if she had tried this earlier she would have probably toppled on her ass. As it was, she pretty much tripped over her legs to get to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet in time before her stomach heaved, violently emptying itself into the porcelain bowl in front of her. Her body shook, and beads of sweat started to pool on her forehead. Got she felt awful; she couldn't remember the last time she felt this hungover…

And with that thought the word that she was trying so very hard not to think about had finally caught up with her. Hungover. Quinn felt like shit warmed over because Quinn was hungover. Quinn was hungover because Quinn had drank. Possibly her weight in whisky. And…Rum. Oh, sweet, sweet rum. And maybe a little bit of Tequila. At that thought her stomach heaved again and emptied. Yes, there was definitely tequila. Quinn hugged the bowl, and with a shaky hand pulled the plunger, moaning as she watched her sobriety get flushed down the drain.

8 and a ½ months. 8 and a ½ months of feeling like a snail must feel when some careless and borderline cruel child sprinkled salt on top of it, as it slowly dried up from the inside out. 8 and a ½ months of suffering through this life she happened on, alone, with nothing to buffer it from the daily criticism, the daily wanting, the daily drudgery. 8 and a ½ months of willing herself to forget everything, to move on, to forget, to not feel, to not care, to just be. Eight and a half months of her having to take a sharp and unfiltered look at her life, day in and day out, all for nothing.

This was all Nohbdy's fault!

Nohbdy's fault because she reminded her of Santana, the friend she left behind. Nohbdy's fault because she had lured Quinn into a false sense of reality, because she was easy to talk to, and because Quinn liked her in a way that she hadn't liked anyone in a very long time. Nohbdy's fault because Quinn allowed herself to depend on someone, to trust in someone, and then she wasn't fucking there when she needed her. Nohbdy's fault because she made her remember everything that she had spent so much time trying to forget, like her old life, and her old friends, and Rachel. _Goddamn_ Rachel! Rachel with those large brown eyes, that soft smile, and that voice that could cause the devil to repent. Rachel who had caused Quinn to fall in love with her, just as she was falling out of love with Quinn.

She felt tears well in her eyes, and wondered if this was that rock bottom that they always talked about. She was alone on the floor of her fuckbuddies' apartment, cursing nobody, and currently puking up the ghost of an ex-girlfriend who wasn't even still thinking about her! This was her fault, too!

"Fuck Rachel Berry," she muttered.

There was a sound of footsteps behind her. "Why are we fucking Rachel Berry?" Heath questioned. He followed her into the bathroom. She felt an unwelcome hand on her back, soothingly rubbing circles on it. "Although that would be hot."

"Go away."

He didn't. "Did she beat you out for a role, babe?"

Quinn cringed. "No."

"Did you guys go out partying? Do you actually _know_ Rachel Berry?"

God, if her… _boyfriend_ …was about to fangirl over Rachel Berry she was going to shoot herself. "How do _you_ know her?" She refused to whole name the girl again.

She could feel Heath shrug. "She's hot right now. Who doesn't know her?" Quinn started to pull away from him but she couldn't move too much, scared of what would happen. She and her stomach appeared to be at a momentary truce; she didn't want to break it. "Do you need me to rough her up?"

Quinn surprised herself by barking out a laugh.

They stayed that way for a space of time. Quinn's stomach seemed to settled down. Her thoughts continued to race.

"You okay, now?"

"I feel like death," Quinn mumbled.

Heath gave her a winsome smile. "You kind of look it, too. Not my idea of a truly romantic morning, but," his voice trailed. Heath went to the sink to fill a glass of water for her. "Think you can handle some hangover food?"

Still bent over the toilet bowl, Quinn rested her head on her hand so she could turn to look at him. She glowered at him beneath the wisps of hair that clung to her clammy forehead. "You let me drink."

He frowned, his face turning up in confusion. "You're over 21 aren't you?"

"I'm not supposed to be drinking, Heath!" she snapped at him in her best head bitch voice. "I'm fucking on probation for getting into an accident while I was drunk!"

"Oh come on, that accident wasn't even your fault!" he said blithely, and Quinn let out a breath because…finally! "What, you're supposed to feel bad because some kid doesn't know how to drive? Drunk or sober, that kid still shouldn't have been on the road."

"Tell that to the court."

"You want me to?"

Quinn rolled her eyes. "No."

Heath helped her to her feet, firmly placing two pills into the palm of her hand. "I'm sorry you feel bad, but the last time I checked, Frankie, you're an adult. You want a drink, I'm going to let you drink. It's not my job to make sure that you, don't."

She swallowed down the water, and the pills. It helped, a little, but she could seriously drink a lake right now, and still be thirsty. Heath placed an arm around her shoulders. "Food. You'll feel better once you've got calories in you."

She followed him into his kitchen, slipping into one of his t-shirts on the way.

Quinn spent most of the afternoon recovering on Heath's couch. She ate only a little, idly picking at the food on the plate Heath placed in front of her. She wasn't sure if she was relieved, or annoyed, when she had to get up to get ready for her shift at the Lighthouse. Her overall cruddiness had improved by the time she had to go in, but still she descended the steps the slowest she's done since she started.

104 steps. Two days. Two more trips, eight more hours, and she was done with this miserable sentence. She only had to get through eight more hours of listening to people struggling to get their lives together while Quinn felt like hers was falling apart. 104 more steps and she could go back to the simple simplicity of going to sleep when Mel told her to, and waking up when Mel told her to, of going to the places that Angelica told her to go, of posing the way the photographers told her to, of not having to give up these four hours of her time, two days a week, for people who couldn't afford it. She didn't have to make any decisions, didn't have to live, didn't have to want.

She made it down to the basement at exactly 10:00. Didn't offer a word to her fellows, just crept to her work station, put the headset on, and began minute 1 of 240, and not a minute more.

She received the indicator that a new chat window had opened almost immediately.

**_Moderator_ ** _: Hello. This is the Lighthouse. My name is Emily. How are you?_

_**User** : Emsie!_

Quinn let out a grunt.

**_Moderator_ ** _: How may I assist you tonight?_

_**User** : On your knees is always fun._

…

**_User_ ** _: Oh, come on, that's funny!_

_**Moderator** : Was there something you wanted to talk about, today?_

There was a pause on the other side. The ellipses appeared, then disappeared with nothing being sent. Quinn wasn't going to be the first one to jump though.

**_User_ ** _: Is this Emily?_

_**Moderator** : Yes._

_**User** : The fake Emily?_

Quinn could read the uncertainty in between the words, but she didn't feel like offering any reassurances. In 7 hours and 52 minutes, Nohbdy would be exactly that to her: nobody. As fun as imaging roof top dates, as stimulating as the conversations were, that was not part of her 'job', and there was no point in getting attached to someone she was unlikely to ever talk to again. Two more sessions and she'd just become another somebody that she used to know.

**_Moderator_ ** _: I'm not fake, but yes._

_**User** : The one that I've been talking to for the past month?_

Three weeks wasn't a month.

 **Moderator** : Yes. What would you like to discuss tonight?

The ellipses appeared.

**_User_ ** _: That's…disappointing._

_**Moderator** : What?_

_**User** : Nothing._

Fifteen minutes passed. The chat stream remained empty. Quinn fielded a call, checked to make sure the chat was still active. Vaguely she listened to the caller, and accepted another chat invitation. Two times the ellipses appeared, only to disappear without anything being said.

**_User_ ** _: Okay, what gives?_

_**Moderator** : Pardon?_

_**User** : Why am I being given the cold shoulder?_

_**Moderator** : I'm not giving you the cold shoulder._

She knew how untrue that was before she even typed the words. She hadn't even changed the field names, yet, and she usually did that as soon as she knew who she was speaking with.

**_User_ ** _: Bullshit! You're giving me the royal brush off. I haven't seen it directed at me often, but I still know what it looks like._

Quinn corrected the field names.

**_Nohbdy_ ** _: I can't believe I actually stayed up just to talk to you. I had a really great week, and a not so great day the other day, and I was actually excited about talking to you since it's been a week since we talked, and I missed you Sunday, but if you're going to be a bitch to me for no effin reason, I'm just going to leave you with a fuck off, because I don't need or deserve to have to deal with that, and my life is finally starting to look good!_

Quinn felt guilty, and panicked, and warm, as soon as she read that, because Nobhdy was right; she didn't deserve that, and Quinn was projecting.

**_Emily_ ** _: No, wait._

_**Nohbdy** : Yes?_

_**Emily** : I'm sorry._

…

**_Nohbdy_ ** _: You're going to have to do better than that._

_**Emily** : I'm sorry for being a bitch._

…

_**Emily** : Come on, don't be cruel, I said sorry._

_**Nohbdy** : I guess if that's the best that you can do._

_**Emily** : Not that this has anything to do with our interaction, but I had a bad week, and I've kind of gotten used to talking to you. It…makes things not suck so bad._

_**Nohbdy** : Is that your way of saying that you missed me?_

_**Emily** : That's not exactly what I said._

_**Nohbdy** : I missed you. I almost dropped in, actually, but we had a gig, then an after gig, and I didn't get a moment to myself._

She _missed_ me?

**_Emily_ ** _: How'd your gig go?_

_**Nohbdy** : We kicked ass!_

Quinn chuckled.

**_Nohbdy_ ** _: Then we picked it up, and kicked it again. This might be the real deal for us._

_**Emily** : Yeah?_

_**Nohbdy** : Yea, about time!_

_**Emily** : So your band is good?_

_**Nohbdy** : I guess you could say that._

The tally that Quinn kept in her head of Nohbdy being Santana vs. not Santana put a mark in the 'not Santana' category at Nohbdy's attempt at being modest. Santana was never modest.

_**Emily** : What kind of music do you do?_

_**Nohbdy** : Kind of alternative R&B_

_**Emily** : What's that?_

_**Nohbdy** : So like, the 90s were probably, hands down, the best generation for music. And R&B _was actually worth listening to when it was about falling in love, and making love, and being in love…you know before it became about making money? Anyway…it's like that 90s vibe R&B, but more rock/alternative. Like Fall out Boys meets Boys II Men. It's pretty tight."

Quinn didn't really, well, she couldn't really picture it. If this Nohbdy was sitting in front of her, she would have hummed.

_**Nohbdy** : We're legit._

_**Emily** : Is that why your week was good? Because you had a good gig?_

_**Nohbdy** : Good gigs and coffee._

_**Emily** : Coffee made your week? I've had good coffee, but never that good._

_**Nohbdy** : You didn't have my coffee._

Quinn wondered if they had unwittingly started talking about sex. It was a possibility. An hour had passed and Nohbdy hadn't brought it up.

_**Emily** : Why's this coffee so good?_

_**Nohbdy** : Because of the person who brought it to me._

Quinn wasn't sure why, but a lump was forming in her throat, and she a had a funny feeling in her stomach. Nohbdy went on, oblivious.

_**Nohbdy** : Mindy, that's the name I'm going to use, is this old band mate of mine. We used to have this crazy, mad chemistry, but instead of getting together, we would collaborate on these songs. She just came back into my life, like a little bit ago, and…_

Quinn tensed. She was sure the emotion may have been jealously, which was astounding. Not just because she had only had 3 'conversations' with this stranger, but because she had a…boyfriend herself, now. Not that any of it mattered, not that the two of them would ever get together in real life, so she wasn't quite sure how jealousy fit.

_**Emily** : And?_

_**Nohbdy** : I don't know…we're…I don't know. She's…we went on a date, but the next morning she was gone._

_**Emily** : Like in a one-night stand?_

_**Nohbdy** : No. We didn't sleep together._

Quinn exhaled.

 **Nohbdy** : Well, we did.

There was that strange feeling in her chest, like bands wrapping around her heart.

**_Nohbdy:_ ** _I mean we slept in the same bed. But that was it._

Quinn felt her self calming down slightly.

**_Nohbdy_ ** _: We'd just had this song writing session, and those…believe it or not, those can be as good as sex. But when I woke up, in her bed, she was gone, and it was so disappointing._

10 minutes of no conversation passed. Quinn was going to prompt her, but then the ellipses showed.

_**Nohbdy** : She told me that she wouldn't be, before we even fell asleep, but it was like this big gut check. That was not the kind of night that you want to wake up alone from. There's something really sad about waking up, alone, in someone else's bed, you know?_

Quinn knew.

_**Nohbdy** : I like her; I like her a lot. I always have. Not sure if it's the right kind of like. I have this habit of falling in love with my close friends. I'm not this warm, cuddly, girl, as you probably figured. I can't let people get too close to me, so when I do, I let them get real close. And then I start imagining things. Confuse good friendship for genuine affection. I start to believe they feel the same way for me that I feel for them, and that's just a recipe for heartbreak._

_**Emily:** How do you want her to feel about you?_

_…_

_**Nohbdy:** Like bringing me coffee is one of the best things in her day._

_**Emily** : Why wasn't she there?_

_**Nohbdy** : She's really busy at the mo. She's pretty high in demand right now, so she's doing a lot of traveling._

_**Emily** : She's a singer, too?_

_**Nohbdy** : Yeah._

_**Emily** : Anybody I know?_

_**Nohbdy** : Would you believe me if I said yes?_

Quinn recognized the words and started to laugh.

_**Emily** : No, lol._

_**Nohbdy** : Her career is going crazy right now, and she just released an album so she's got a lot of promotion, and our schedules are going to be pretty hit and miss for a while._

_**Emily** : Is that a problem?_

_**Nohbdy** : When I was younger, the thought of a long distance relationship was a deal breaker for me, but now…it's nice just knowing that somewhere in the world, I have this person who makes me feel this way. It's kind of makes the world feel warmer, you know?_

Quinn didn't.

**_Nohbdy_ ** _: I could date her. I would date her. She's so close to perfect, which is the problem. She's so sweet, and so kind, and I'm…_

Five minutes. This time Quinn did prompt her.

_**Emily** : You're…_

_**Nohbdy** : Not._

Quinn was lucky that this Nohbdy, that this person halfway across the country, couldn't see her because that, too, was something she knew all too well. She thought about Rachel, before all the slushies, before all the name calling, before their schizophrenic relationship, back when she was all bright eyed, and eager, and _so_ sure. _That_ Rachel wouldn't have married Finn just to prove that Quinn wasn't the only one who knew how to break a heart. Quinn knew that it was only her accident that had prevented Rachel from marrying Finn. She would have done it, gotten married, had kids, possibly given up on Broadway, even, just to prove that Quinn wasn't the only person who would ever love her.

_**Emily:** Are you sure you're not just placing her on a pedestal?_

_**Nohbdy** : No, I am, but because she deserves to be there._

_**Emily:** Nobody's perfect._

Quinn was thinking about the way she had thought about Rachel for years. How she had always blamed herself for corrupting the girl, but…Quinn wasn't solely to blame for Rachel's cruel side. Even without the bullying, or the secret relationship, or any of those things, Rachel had always loved Broadway and fame first, second, and third. That didn't change because of Quinn. Rachel sending Sunshine to that crack house had nothing to do with her. Everyone had a bit of a dark side.

_**Nohbdy:** I'm well aware. In high school I dated this girl who seemed like it. She was the girl that everyone said deserved for only good things to happen to. She had these eyes that would make you melt, and it hurt, physically, to ever see her upset, or cry-_

That sounded like Brittany to a tee.

_**Nohbdy** : But I realized that she was only so carefree, so Innocent, because everyone else took the burden away from her. A pretty pair of eyes doesn't excuse you from all the hurt in the world, you know what I mean? No one deserves to be hurt, no one deserves to be alone, no one deserves to be treated like crap. But the reasons for someone being treated right, or being protected from the world, or not, shouldn't be because of looks, or because of pretty eyes, or pouty lips. Everyone equally deserves to share in the joy and pain._

_**Emily:** Yet you want to sacrifice what could be between you and Mindy because you're putting her joy above yours?_

_**Nohbdy:** Isn't that what you do for the ones you love? I know Mindy isn't perfect. But the things she is, I'm not. She likes nearly everyone; I don't like most people. She's thoughtful and calm; I'm insensitive and emotional. What if, what if I destroy all of the things that make her, her? I don't want her to take in my bad._

Quinn read and re-read those words. They hit her almost as hard as Nohbdy's quote about being all actors.

**_Nohbdy:_ ** _I don't want to break her with my love._

Quinn swallowed, and then typed.

 ** _Emily_** : _But we went on a 'date'._

She cringed after the words were sent, because although she intending them to come out as joking, taken in the context of the conversation they were having, they sounded more whiny and needy, as if she were some pathetic girl who was putting way more importance into three conversations than she logically should have been.

Nohbdy seemed to think so, because she was silent for more than 20 minutes, with not even any ellipses to suggest she was typing. Quinn kept trying to figure out what to say to erase the words she said, and couldn't think of any.

But then Nohbdy's next words came through, and they didn't stop coming, appearing faster than Quinn could read them.

_**Nohbdy** : Because, you and me, we're already broken._

_**Nohbdy:** We understand too well the unpleasant side of thigns. We get each other._

_**Nohbdy:** Like you being bitch yto me earlier because I disappeared on you, even though I told you I wasn't going to be able to chat. That pissed me off, but I get it._

_**Nohbdy:**_ Me not being there hit all of your isnsecurities. There you are, stuck doing community serice, a sentence that you don't think you deserve

_**Nohbdy:** Though **,** Honestly, though, I think you do. Cars can be weapons, and you should always be paying attention, clear, and lucid when you're behind the wheel. A text message almsot took my best friend away from me, once. You don't make dumb decisions when it comes to cars._

_**Nohbdy:** But **…** anyway, your stuck doing community service, you're probably counting down the days, and minutes, and hours until do ne and don't have this minor interruption to a life that's only not suffocating half time._

_**Nohbdy:** You never expected to get anything out of it._

_**Nohbdy** : Then I come along, and for some reason, we click. Maybe it's because I remind you of somebody from your past , or maybe it's because my sarcasm cuts straight through your b.s., and you think "fuck, we'll never knew each other'_

_**Nohbdy:** Other than these words that are being typed back and forth between us._

_**Nohbdy** : And you just want, need, some person that you don't have to bullshift, that you can be yourself with. Maybe I even had you imagining that it could be real._

_**Nohbdy** : And when I wasn't there, it was devastating because me being there ad allowed you to hope._

_**Nohbdy:** and waiting to find out whether or not that's true, hurts so much more than not hoping._

_Nohbdy_ let her statements sit, and sit with Quinn they did. It wasn't just the rapid fire nature of the statements; it was how accurately she'd been pegged. God, it was so true, so very true. She was a complete, and total, mess.

**_Nohbdy_ ** _: Am I wrong?_

Quinn looked back over those words.

**_Emily:_ ** _Not even a little._

_**Nohbdy:** I know because that's exactly how I felt, waking up with Mindy gone. I understand you Emsie, better or worse, I get it. I can't save you, but I can be your friend._

The sentence was out before Quinn had the chance to contemplate the words.

_**Emily:** I might be an alcoholic._

She surprised herself at admitting that.

_**Emily:** I got drunk the other day._

She didn't realize she was crying, until she was surprised by the feel of wetness on her arm. She looked around to make sure that no one noticed, and hunched down at her station to keep it that way.

_**Nohbdy** : Why?_

_**Emily:** Drinking makes the hurt go away. It doesn't feel so lonely when I drink. It doesn't disappoint me._

_**Nohbdy** : I bet you were hella disappointed when you woke up the next morning._

Quinn snorted, because that was so true. If alcohol was a mistress, a hangover was waking up to find that she had kicked you out of the bed in the middle of the night, stole your favorite shoes, and demanded to be paid for her service as you left.

**_Emily:_ ** _Yea, this hangover was a bitch._

_**Nohbdy:** Tsk, tsk. Language, Emisie._

**_Emily:_ ** _I can curse when I'm hungover, it's my right._

_**Nohbdy:** Fair enough._

_**Emily:** Why do you like sunrises so much?_

_**Nohbdy:** No matter how dark the night may get, the sun always comes out to chase it all away._

_**Emily** : You mean the sun'll come out…tomorrow?_

_…_

_**Nohbdy:** Oh my god, you're such a punk! I just did a spit take with my coke._

_**Emily:** No! Sorry, I couldn't help it!_

_**Nohbdy:** You can bet your bottom dollar…I'll be getting you back._

_**Emily:** I know that's iconic Annie, but ever since Leisha Hailey, every time I hear that song I think of her._

_**Nohbdy** : The chick, Alice, from the L Word?_

_**Emily:** Yea._

_**Nohbdy:** Why her?_

_**Emily:** Boy Meets World. She was that girl that Eric met outside his dad's shop._

_**Nohbdy** : Oh my god! You're right. Whoa!_

_**Nohbdy:** Mind. Blown._

Quinn giggled.

**_Nohbdy:_ ** _Totally doing air guitar right now, don't care who sees! Oh, and making the face!_

_**Emily** : I would have given you my heart._

_**Nohbdy:** I would have given up who I am._

_**Emily:** But you trampled on my soul._

_**Nohbdy:** Cause you don't understand. You're_

_**Emily:**_ Shallow!

**_Nohbdy_ ** _: Shallow!_

Quinn wasn't aware she was making a scene until she looked up to find Rosalita looking at her with a half amused, half WTF look. Quinn snorted, her shoulders shaking.

**_Emily:_ ** _I'm totally embarrassing myself right now._

_**Nohbdy:** I can't believe I'mm issing that, lol! I can't believe someone else even knows that song!_

_**Emily:** What? Classic._

_**Nohbdy:** Who would you have been?_

_**Emily:** What do you mean?_

**_Nohbdy:_ ** _On the show._

_**Emily:** Morgan._

_**Nohbdy:** Morgan?_

_**Emily:** The little sister._

_**Nohbdy:** I know, but why?_

_**Emily** : I went upstairs for three years, and didn't come back down._

_**Nohbdy** : Emsie…._

_**Emily:** Who would you have been?_

_**Nohbdy** : Sean, all the way. Or is it Shawn?_

Something just occurred to Quinn.

**_Emily:_ ** _You not drinking tonight?_

_**Nohbdy:** No gig._

_**Emily:** I have to tell you something. Two somethings. One you're probably not going to like, the other, I'm not sure._

_**Nohbdy:** Ok…_

_**Nohbdy:** Are you a man?_

_**Emily:** Sunday is my last day._

_…._

_**Nohbdy:** I guess that figures. What's the other?_

_**Emily:** I would go on a second 'date' with you in a heartbeat. Mindy…she's lucky. Don't let her escape._

Quinn's heart thudded, waiting for her reply.

_**Nohbdy:** I've realized that I've been holding on to long to my past; that's why we've never tried this thing, before. Because I've been in love with someone else, but I'm starting to let it go._

**_Emily_ ** _: That's what I need to do._

_**Nohbdy:** Yea?_

_**Emily** : There was this girl._

_**Nohbdy** : Isn't it always?_

_**Emily:** It's…she left me…in the bed after a one-night stand. Before I could leave her. And I would have, if given the chance. I left her anyway. I've been avoiding my past for so long, because I've been worried about having to explain why I did what I did, worried that I had ruined another great thing, just like I had with my first girlfriend. So I came out here, and I stayed._

_**Nohbdy:** And have been chasing ghosts ever since?_

Quinn looked down, surprised at the time.

_**Emily:** Not entirely. Mostly just for the past couple of months. But…that's a story for another day._

_**Nohbdy:** Time for the sunrise?_

_**Emily:** Yea._

_**Nohbdy:** One more day?_

_**Emily** : One more._

_**Nohbdy:** See you then._

Quinn sent her the link.

**_Nohbdy:_ ** _Night Emsie._

_**Emily** : Good night...Tiffany?_

_**Nohbdy:** Hah…Not even close. :-). Good night._

Quinn felt an acute sense of loss when she ended the chat session. For the first time since they started talking, Quinn didn't feel as if she was talking to Santana, and oddly, that thought didn't bother her at all.

She printed out her conversation, and walked with slow footsteps up her 26 steps for the day. 52 left.

Santana curled up around Thalia's lap top, checking herself on the screen while she waited for the call to connect. A few more seconds and a couple of rings later, and she was looking at the smiling face of Thalia, and it briefly made her breathless. "Hey, beautiful. How'd you sleep?"

Santana found herself reciprocating that smile, even as she frowned. "Badly," she admitted. You weren't here when I woke up."

"I know, and I'm sorry about that. Flight first thing in the morning."

Santana attempted to get comfortable on the couch. "Where are you?"

"Copenhagen." She got this look, like she was trying not to squeal. "It's so crazy, right? Like how is this possibly life? Is it totally crazy of me to want to send you a ticket, so you can come be here with me?"

"Not crazy, I'd love that, but I've got gigs, and the band."

"I know! I feel bad that I wasn't there when you woke. I left you a key in the bowl on the table; you can stay there as long as you want."

"Really? You're going to give me free range around your place while you're in another country? You know that I like to go through people's things, right."

"You mean snoop?"

Santana laughed comfortably. "I like to think of it as investigating."

"As long as your investigation doesn't end up on TMZ, we're good. I trust you, Santana."

Santana smiled. She liked that Thalia did. "When are you coming back?"

Thalia's eyes shifted, and Santana could tell that she was checking another screen. "A week from next Friday."

"We'll be south."

"When do you get back?"

"Monday morning."

"I'm supposed to be in Quebec by five that evening. Maybe…maybe we can grab breakfast?"

"Maybe," Santana answered, with no real faith that it would happen.

Thalia picked up on that, easily. "Things are only busy like this until the premiere, and I'll call and talk, and write, and what not. We should set a date, though, so we can record your song."

"Thalia-,"

"Stop it, Santana."

"You don't have to do that."

"I said stop."

"You're an international music sensation, you really want to bring down your rep to do a duet on my CD?"

"Hey, the only reason we stopped singing together is because you left me. I'll always want to sing with you. And I'm not an International Star….yet. If we somehow can't get our schedules to align, I'll record my part separately. I've already emailed Fats the arrangement…," Thalia suddenly frowned. "Oh hey, I've got to go. I'll talk to you soon, okay?"

Santana pouted. "Okay."

Thalia blew a kiss, before the screen went blank. Santana felt pathetic, but she stared back at the blank screen as if it would bring the image of Thalia back to her. Although it broke all of her rules, Santana crawled back into Thalia's bed, and went back to sleep.

* * *

Waking up was not Quinn's best decision. To be fair, falling asleep wasn't that much better, but judging by the way that her brain was pounding against her skull as if it were trying to remove itself from her body, the completely blinding brightness of the room, and the hairy arm that was wrapped around her midsection, waking up was definitely a big mistake. And if the feeling of being dried out from the inside out was any indicator of past deeds, waking up was just one of a series of very bad decisions that she had made in the last 48 hours.

But at least she hadn't dreamed of Rachel.

She felt a press of lips on her neck, and a nose nuzzling her from behind. She stiffened mentally, if not physically. She recognized the thick, dark curls of hair on the arm around her waist, and that, at least, was a bit of a relief: the last thing she wanted to play at this moment was the 'who did I sleep with' game.

Yet…as horrible as that would have been, there was something in the air underlying this familiarity, something that wasn't stale breath, or the residual smell of a recent coupling, or sheets in need of a cleaning. She may not have been wracking her brains trying to figure out who she had gone to bed with last night, but there was still something that was unpleasant all the same. Quinn wanted to escape it, whatever it was, but just shifting on the bed clued her in to how much of a disaster it would be for her to attempt to move any more than that.

She fell back to the bed, somewhat in defeat. At the very least, whatever it was that was hanging over her in the early morning air, while it was definitely not something she wanted to deal with first thing in the morning, or ever, it was sufficiently keeping her mind distracted from the thing that she _really_ didn't want to think about.

The arm tightened around her. "Morning, babe." Quinn grunted her acknowledgment, and Heath chuckled at her discomfort. "You are so not a morning person, Frankie," he chirped. _Heath_ was a morning person. Heath was a night person. Heath was just perky. He was attractive, and looked good in anything, and was kind to puppies and old ladies. She hated him.

Quinn grunted again in response, glowering at a pillow that didn't appreciate the intensity of her glare. She moved inside of the space of Heath's arms, but that little movement sent her stomach reeling and her head pounding. She froze. _Oh god_.

She could feel Heath's morning 'exclamation point' as he seriously called it, (on more than one occasion), letting itself be known. Heath's mouth moved from the back of her neck, and trailed along the expanse of skin, possibly dragging boogers along with it. His hand moved up to cup her breasts, and although she was so _not_ in the mood to be doing this, she didn't want her mind to get the chance to supply her with an answer for why she felt so fucking horrible right now. So she did what she did best: she acted. She moaned on cue, and squirmed (all while trying not to do too much moving), and she pressed kisses into Heath's exposed skin, and pretended to get worked up.

Quinn was a 100% bisexual. She liked sex with guys _and_ she liked sex with girls. At times she even loved sex with either persuasion. She found breasts as attractive as hard chests, and hairy arms just as appealing as smooth faces. When she had sex with either sex she enjoyed it. But she couldn't particularly say that she _loved_ sex with Heath. He was of a decent length, and he was good looking. His breath didn't stink; he didn't have any strange odors. He was as attentive and as kind as any Hollywood playboy, friends with benefits could be, but she never really felt anything _special_ with him. He was great when she was feeling lonely, he let her cuddle, if she needed him for an event he showed, but unless she was just horny, she didn't readily go to him. Today was no exception. She forced her mind to be in the moment, though, to make sure he thought she was in the moment, and when he was satisfied (operative word being he), she smiled when he looked at her, and didn't even mention the fact that she hadn't climaxed.

Heath settled contently beside her, his shoulder brushing hers. He smiled at her smile, and turned, angling himself towards her. "This is nice."

Quinn feigned ignorance. "The sex?"

"The morning."

_Shit._

"I can really see this, Frankie." He leaned up, so he could look at her. "I mean, we're too good looking people, and are both at good points in our career. We're good together. Can't you see it?"

Quinn was saved from having to answer by a sudden, violent, pang to her gut. She stumbled from the bed, confirming that if she had tried this earlier she would have probably toppled on her ass. As it was, she pretty much tripped over her legs to get to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet in time before her stomach heaved, violently emptying itself into the porcelain bowl in front of her. Her body shook, and beads of sweat started to pool on her forehead. Got she felt awful; she couldn't remember the last time she felt this hungover…

And with that thought the word that she was trying so very hard not to think about had finally caught up with her. Hungover. Quinn felt like shit warmed over because Quinn was hungover. Quinn was hungover because Quinn had drank. Possibly her weight in whisky. And…Rum. Oh, sweet, sweet rum. And maybe a little bit of Tequila. At that thought her stomach heaved again and emptied. Yes, there was definitely tequila. Quinn hugged the bowl, and with a shaky hand pulled the plunger, moaning as she watched her sobriety get flushed down the drain.

8 and a ½ months. 8 and a ½ months of feeling like a snail must feel when some careless and borderline cruel child sprinkled salt on top of it, as it slowly dried up from the inside out. 8 and a ½ months of suffering through this life she happened on, alone, with nothing to buffer it from the daily criticism, the daily wanting, the daily drudgery. 8 and a ½ months of willing herself to forget everything, to move on, to forget, to not feel, to not care, to just be. Eight and a half months of her having to take a sharp and unfiltered look at her life, day in and day out, all for nothing.

This was all Nohbdy's fault!

Nohbdy's fault because she reminded her of Santana, the friend she left behind. Nohbdy's fault because she had lured Quinn into a false sense of reality, because she was easy to talk to, and because Quinn liked her in a way that she hadn't liked anyone in a very long time. Nohbdy's fault because Quinn allowed herself to depend on someone, to trust in someone, and then she wasn't fucking there when she needed her. Nohbdy's fault because she made her remember everything that she had spent so much time trying to forget, like her old life, and her old friends, and Rachel. _Goddamn_ Rachel! Rachel with those large brown eyes, that soft smile, and that voice that could cause the devil to repent. Rachel who had caused Quinn to fall in love with her, just as she was falling out of love with Quinn.

She felt tears well in her eyes, and wondered if this was that rock bottom that they always talked about. She was alone on the floor of her fuckbuddies' apartment, cursing nobody, and currently puking up the ghost of an ex-girlfriend who wasn't even still thinking about her! This was her fault, too!

"Fuck Rachel Berry," she muttered.

There was a sound of footsteps behind her. "Why are we fucking Rachel Berry?" Heath questioned. He followed her into the bathroom. She felt an unwelcome hand on her back, soothingly rubbing circles on it. "Although that would be hot."

"Go away."

He didn't. "Did she beat you out for a role, babe?"

Quinn cringed. "No."

"Did you guys go out partying? Do you actually _know_ Rachel Berry?"

God, if her… _boyfriend_ …was about to fangirl over Rachel Berry she was going to shoot herself. "How do _you_ know her?" She refused to whole name the girl again.

She could feel Heath shrug. "She's hot right now. Who doesn't know her?" Quinn started to pull away from him but she couldn't move too much, scared of what would happen. She and her stomach appeared to be at a momentary truce; she didn't want to break it. "Do you need me to rough her up?"

Quinn surprised herself by barking out a laugh.

They stayed that way for a space of time. Quinn's stomach seemed to settled down. Her thoughts continued to race.

"You okay, now?"

"I feel like death," Quinn mumbled.

Heath gave her a winsome smile. "You kind of look it, too. Not my idea of a truly romantic morning, but," his voice trailed. Heath went to the sink to fill a glass of water for her. "Think you can handle some hangover food?"

Still bent over the toilet bowl, Quinn rested her head on her hand so she could turn to look at him. She glowered at him beneath the wisps of hair that clung to her clammy forehead. "You let me drink."

He frowned, his face turning up in confusion. "You're over 21 aren't you?"

"I'm not supposed to be drinking, Heath!" she snapped at him in her best head bitch voice. "I'm fucking on probation for getting into an accident while I was drunk!"

"Oh come on, that accident wasn't even your fault!" he said blithely, and Quinn let out a breath because…finally! "What, you're supposed to feel bad because some kid doesn't know how to drive? Drunk or sober, that kid still shouldn't have been on the road."

"Tell that to the court."

"You want me to?"

Quinn rolled her eyes. "No."

Heath helped her to her feet, firmly placing two pills into the palm of her hand. "I'm sorry you feel bad, but the last time I checked, Frankie, you're an adult. You want a drink, I'm going to let you drink. It's not my job to make sure that you, don't."

She swallowed down the water, and the pills. It helped, a little, but she could seriously drink a lake right now, and still be thirsty. Heath placed an arm around her shoulders. "Food. You'll feel better once you've got calories in you."

She followed him into his kitchen, slipping into one of his t-shirts on the way.

Quinn spent most of the afternoon recovering on Heath's couch. She ate only a little, idly picking at the food on the plate Heath placed in front of her. She wasn't sure if she was relieved, or annoyed, when she had to get up to get ready for her shift at the Lighthouse. Her overall cruddiness had improved by the time she had to go in, but still she descended the steps the slowest she's done since she started.

104 steps. Two days. Two more trips, eight more hours, and she was done with this miserable sentence. She only had to get through eight more hours of listening to people struggling to get their lives together while Quinn felt like hers was falling apart. 104 more steps and she could go back to the simple simplicity of going to sleep when Mel told her to, and waking up when Mel told her to, of going to the places that Angelica told her to go, of posing the way the photographers told her to, of not having to give up these four hours of her time, two days a week, for people who couldn't afford it. She didn't have to make any decisions, didn't have to live, didn't have to want.

She made it down to the basement at exactly 10:00. Didn't offer a word to her fellows, just crept to her work station, put the headset on, and began minute 1 of 240, and not a minute more.

She received the indicator that a new chat window had opened almost immediately.

**_Moderator_ ** _: Hello. This is the Lighthouse. My name is Emily. How are you?_

_**User** : Emsie!_

Quinn let out a grunt.

**_Moderator_ ** _: How may I assist you tonight?_

_**User** : On your knees is always fun._

…

**_User_ ** _: Oh, come on, that's funny!_

_**Moderator** : Was there something you wanted to talk about, today?_

There was a pause on the other side. The ellipses appeared, then disappeared with nothing being sent. Quinn wasn't going to be the first one to jump though.

**_User_ ** _: Is this Emily?_

_**Moderator** : Yes._

_**User** : The fake Emily?_

Quinn could read the uncertainty in between the words, but she didn't feel like offering any reassurances. In 7 hours and 52 minutes, Nohbdy would be exactly that to her: nobody. As fun as imaging roof top dates, as stimulating as the conversations were, that was not part of her 'job', and there was no point in getting attached to someone she was unlikely to ever talk to again. Two more sessions and she'd just become another somebody that she used to know.

**_Moderator_ ** _: I'm not fake, but yes._

_**User** : The one that I've been talking to for the past month?_

Three weeks wasn't a month.

 **Moderator** : Yes. What would you like to discuss tonight?

The ellipses appeared.

**_User_ ** _: That's…disappointing._

_**Moderator** : What?_

_**User** : Nothing._

Fifteen minutes passed. The chat stream remained empty. Quinn fielded a call, checked to make sure the chat was still active. Vaguely she listened to the caller, and accepted another chat invitation. Two times the ellipses appeared, only to disappear without anything being said.

**_User_ ** _: Okay, what gives?_

_**Moderator** : Pardon?_

_**User** : Why am I being given the cold shoulder?_

_**Moderator** : I'm not giving you the cold shoulder._

She knew how untrue that was before she even typed the words. She hadn't even changed the field names, yet, and she usually did that as soon as she knew who she was speaking with.

**_User_ ** _: Bullshit! You're giving me the royal brush off. I haven't seen it directed at me often, but I still know what it looks like._

Quinn corrected the field names.

**_Nohbdy_ ** _: I can't believe I actually stayed up just to talk to you. I had a really great week, and a not so great day the other day, and I was actually excited about talking to you since it's been a week since we talked, and I missed you Sunday, but if you're going to be a bitch to me for no effin reason, I'm just going to leave you with a fuck off, because I don't need or deserve to have to deal with that, and my life is finally starting to look good!_

Quinn felt guilty, and panicked, and warm, as soon as she read that, because Nobhdy was right; she didn't deserve that, and Quinn was projecting.

**_Emily_ ** _: No, wait._

_**Nohbdy** : Yes?_

_**Emily** : I'm sorry._

…

**_Nohbdy_ ** _: You're going to have to do better than that._

_**Emily** : I'm sorry for being a bitch._

…

_**Emily** : Come on, don't be cruel, I said sorry._

_**Nohbdy** : I guess if that's the best that you can do._

_**Emily** : Not that this has anything to do with our interaction, but I had a bad week, and I've kind of gotten used to talking to you. It…makes things not suck so bad._

_**Nohbdy** : Is that your way of saying that you missed me?_

_**Emily** : That's not exactly what I said._

_**Nohbdy** : I missed you. I almost dropped in, actually, but we had a gig, then an after gig, and I didn't get a moment to myself._

She _missed_ me?

**_Emily_ ** _: How'd your gig go?_

_**Nohbdy** : We kicked ass!_

Quinn chuckled.

**_Nohbdy_ ** _: Then we picked it up, and kicked it again. This might be the real deal for us._

_**Emily** : Yeah?_

_**Nohbdy** : Yea, about time!_

_**Emily** : So your band is good?_

_**Nohbdy** : I guess you could say that._

The tally that Quinn kept in her head of Nohbdy being Santana vs. not Santana put a mark in the 'not Santana' category at Nohbdy's attempt at being modest. Santana was never modest.

_**Emily** : What kind of music do you do?_

_**Nohbdy** : Kind of alternative R&B_

_**Emily** : What's that?_

_**Nohbdy** : So like, the 90s were probably, hands down, the best generation for music. And R&B _was actually worth listening to when it was about falling in love, and making love, and being in love…you know before it became about making money? Anyway…it's like that 90s vibe R&B, but more rock/alternative. Like Fall out Boys meets Boys II Men. It's pretty tight."

Quinn didn't really, well, she couldn't really picture it. If this Nohbdy was sitting in front of her, she would have hummed.

_**Nohbdy** : We're legit._

_**Emily** : Is that why your week was good? Because you had a good gig?_

_**Nohbdy** : Good gigs and coffee._

_**Emily** : Coffee made your week? I've had good coffee, but never that good._

_**Nohbdy** : You didn't have my coffee._

Quinn wondered if they had unwittingly started talking about sex. It was a possibility. An hour had passed and Nohbdy hadn't brought it up.

_**Emily** : Why's this coffee so good?_

_**Nohbdy** : Because of the person who brought it to me._

Quinn wasn't sure why, but a lump was forming in her throat, and she a had a funny feeling in her stomach. Nohbdy went on, oblivious.

_**Nohbdy** : Mindy, that's the name I'm going to use, is this old band mate of mine. We used to have this crazy, mad chemistry, but instead of getting together, we would collaborate on these songs. She just came back into my life, like a little bit ago, and…_

Quinn tensed. She was sure the emotion may have been jealously, which was astounding. Not just because she had only had 3 'conversations' with this stranger, but because she had a…boyfriend herself, now. Not that any of it mattered, not that the two of them would ever get together in real life, so she wasn't quite sure how jealousy fit.

_**Emily** : And?_

_**Nohbdy** : I don't know…we're…I don't know. She's…we went on a date, but the next morning she was gone._

_**Emily** : Like in a one-night stand?_

_**Nohbdy** : No. We didn't sleep together._

Quinn exhaled.

 **Nohbdy** : Well, we did.

There was that strange feeling in her chest, like bands wrapping around her heart.

**_Nohbdy:_ ** _I mean we slept in the same bed. But that was it._

Quinn felt her self calming down slightly.

**_Nohbdy_ ** _: We'd just had this song writing session, and those…believe it or not, those can be as good as sex. But when I woke up, in her bed, she was gone, and it was so disappointing._

10 minutes of no conversation passed. Quinn was going to prompt her, but then the ellipses showed.

_**Nohbdy** : She told me that she wouldn't be, before we even fell asleep, but it was like this big gut check. That was not the kind of night that you want to wake up alone from. There's something really sad about waking up, alone, in someone else's bed, you know?_

Quinn knew.

_**Nohbdy** : I like her; I like her a lot. I always have. Not sure if it's the right kind of like. I have this habit of falling in love with my close friends. I'm not this warm, cuddly, girl, as you probably figured. I can't let people get too close to me, so when I do, I let them get real close. And then I start imagining things. Confuse good friendship for genuine affection. I start to believe they feel the same way for me that I feel for them, and that's just a recipe for heartbreak._

_**Emily:** How do you want her to feel about you?_

_…_

_**Nohbdy:** Like bringing me coffee is one of the best things in her day._

_**Emily** : Why wasn't she there?_

_**Nohbdy** : She's really busy at the mo. She's pretty high in demand right now, so she's doing a lot of traveling._

_**Emily** : She's a singer, too?_

_**Nohbdy** : Yeah._

_**Emily** : Anybody I know?_

_**Nohbdy** : Would you believe me if I said yes?_

Quinn recognized the words and started to laugh.

_**Emily** : No, lol._

_**Nohbdy** : Her career is going crazy right now, and she just released an album so she's got a lot of promotion, and our schedules are going to be pretty hit and miss for a while._

_**Emily** : Is that a problem?_

_**Nohbdy** : When I was younger, the thought of a long distance relationship was a deal breaker for me, but now…it's nice just knowing that somewhere in the world, I have this person who makes me feel this way. It's kind of makes the world feel warmer, you know?_

Quinn didn't.

**_Nohbdy_ ** _: I could date her. I would date her. She's so close to perfect, which is the problem. She's so sweet, and so kind, and I'm…_

Five minutes. This time Quinn did prompt her.

_**Emily** : You're…_

_**Nohbdy** : Not._

Quinn was lucky that this Nohbdy, that this person halfway across the country, couldn't see her because that, too, was something she knew all too well. She thought about Rachel, before all the slushies, before all the name calling, before their schizophrenic relationship, back when she was all bright eyed, and eager, and _so_ sure. _That_ Rachel wouldn't have married Finn just to prove that Quinn wasn't the only one who knew how to break a heart. Quinn knew that it was only her accident that had prevented Rachel from marrying Finn. She would have done it, gotten married, had kids, possibly given up on Broadway, even, just to prove that Quinn wasn't the only person who would ever love her.

_**Emily:** Are you sure you're not just placing her on a pedestal?_

_**Nohbdy** : No, I am, but because she deserves to be there._

_**Emily:** Nobody's perfect._

Quinn was thinking about the way she had thought about Rachel for years. How she had always blamed herself for corrupting the girl, but…Quinn wasn't solely to blame for Rachel's cruel side. Even without the bullying, or the secret relationship, or any of those things, Rachel had always loved Broadway and fame first, second, and third. That didn't change because of Quinn. Rachel sending Sunshine to that crack house had nothing to do with her. Everyone had a bit of a dark side.

_**Nohbdy:** I'm well aware. In high school I dated this girl who seemed like it. She was the girl that everyone said deserved for only good things to happen to. She had these eyes that would make you melt, and it hurt, physically, to ever see her upset, or cry-_

That sounded like Brittany to a tee.

_**Nohbdy** : But I realized that she was only so carefree, so Innocent, because everyone else took the burden away from her. A pretty pair of eyes doesn't excuse you from all the hurt in the world, you know what I mean? No one deserves to be hurt, no one deserves to be alone, no one deserves to be treated like crap. But the reasons for someone being treated right, or being protected from the world, or not, shouldn't be because of looks, or because of pretty eyes, or pouty lips. Everyone equally deserves to share in the joy and pain._

_**Emily:** Yet you want to sacrifice what could be between you and Mindy because you're putting her joy above yours?_

_**Nohbdy:** Isn't that what you do for the ones you love? I know Mindy isn't perfect. But the things she is, I'm not. She likes nearly everyone; I don't like most people. She's thoughtful and calm; I'm insensitive and emotional. What if, what if I destroy all of the things that make her, her? I don't want her to take in my bad._

Quinn read and re-read those words. They hit her almost as hard as Nohbdy's quote about being all actors.

**_Nohbdy:_ ** _I don't want to break her with my love._

Quinn swallowed, and then typed.

 ** _Emily_** : _But we went on a 'date'._

She cringed after the words were sent, because although she intending them to come out as joking, taken in the context of the conversation they were having, they sounded more whiny and needy, as if she were some pathetic girl who was putting way more importance into three conversations than she logically should have been.

Nohbdy seemed to think so, because she was silent for more than 20 minutes, with not even any ellipses to suggest she was typing. Quinn kept trying to figure out what to say to erase the words she said, and couldn't think of any.

But then Nohbdy's next words came through, and they didn't stop coming, appearing faster than Quinn could read them.

_**Nohbdy** : Because, you and me, we're already broken._

_**Nohbdy:** We understand too well the unpleasant side of thigns. We get each other._

_**Nohbdy:** Like you being bitch yto me earlier because I disappeared on you, even though I told you I wasn't going to be able to chat. That pissed me off, but I get it._

_**Nohbdy:**_ Me not being there hit all of your isnsecurities. There you are, stuck doing community serice, a sentence that you don't think you deserve

_**Nohbdy:** Though **,** Honestly, though, I think you do. Cars can be weapons, and you should always be paying attention, clear, and lucid when you're behind the wheel. A text message almsot took my best friend away from me, once. You don't make dumb decisions when it comes to cars._

_**Nohbdy:** But **…** anyway, your stuck doing community service, you're probably counting down the days, and minutes, and hours until do ne and don't have this minor interruption to a life that's only not suffocating half time._

_**Nohbdy:** You never expected to get anything out of it._

_**Nohbdy** : Then I come along, and for some reason, we click. Maybe it's because I remind you of somebody from your past , or maybe it's because my sarcasm cuts straight through your b.s., and you think "fuck, we'll never knew each other'_

_**Nohbdy:** Other than these words that are being typed back and forth between us._

_**Nohbdy** : And you just want, need, some person that you don't have to bullshift, that you can be yourself with. Maybe I even had you imagining that it could be real._

_**Nohbdy** : And when I wasn't there, it was devastating because me being there ad allowed you to hope._

_**Nohbdy:** and waiting to find out whether or not that's true, hurts so much more than not hoping._

_Nohbdy_ let her statements sit, and sit with Quinn they did. It wasn't just the rapid fire nature of the statements; it was how accurately she'd been pegged. God, it was so true, so very true. She was a complete, and total, mess.

**_Nohbdy_ ** _: Am I wrong?_

Quinn looked back over those words.

**_Emily:_ ** _Not even a little._

_**Nohbdy:** I know because that's exactly how I felt, waking up with Mindy gone. I understand you Emsie, better or worse, I get it. I can't save you, but I can be your friend._

The sentence was out before Quinn had the chance to contemplate the words.

_**Emily:** I might be an alcoholic._

She surprised herself at admitting that.

_**Emily:** I got drunk the other day._

She didn't realize she was crying, until she was surprised by the feel of wetness on her arm. She looked around to make sure that no one noticed, and hunched down at her station to keep it that way.

_**Nohbdy** : Why?_

_**Emily:** Drinking makes the hurt go away. It doesn't feel so lonely when I drink. It doesn't disappoint me._

_**Nohbdy** : I bet you were hella disappointed when you woke up the next morning._

Quinn snorted, because that was so true. If alcohol was a mistress, a hangover was waking up to find that she had kicked you out of the bed in the middle of the night, stole your favorite shoes, and demanded to be paid for her service as you left.

**_Emily:_ ** _Yea, this hangover was a bitch._

_**Nohbdy:** Tsk, tsk. Language, Emisie._

**_Emily:_ ** _I can curse when I'm hungover, it's my right._

_**Nohbdy:** Fair enough._

_**Emily:** Why do you like sunrises so much?_

_**Nohbdy:** No matter how dark the night may get, the sun always comes out to chase it all away._

_**Emily** : You mean the sun'll come out…tomorrow?_

_…_

_**Nohbdy:** Oh my god, you're such a punk! I just did a spit take with my coke._

_**Emily:** No! Sorry, I couldn't help it!_

_**Nohbdy:** You can bet your bottom dollar…I'll be getting you back._

_**Emily:** I know that's iconic Annie, but ever since Leisha Hailey, every time I hear that song I think of her._

_**Nohbdy** : The chick, Alice, from the L Word?_

_**Emily:** Yea._

_**Nohbdy:** Why her?_

_**Emily:** Boy Meets World. She was that girl that Eric met outside his dad's shop._

_**Nohbdy** : Oh my god! You're right. Whoa!_

_**Nohbdy:** Mind. Blown._

Quinn giggled.

**_Nohbdy:_ ** _Totally doing air guitar right now, don't care who sees! Oh, and making the face!_

_**Emily** : I would have given you my heart._

_**Nohbdy:** I would have given up who I am._

_**Emily:** But you trampled on my soul._

_**Nohbdy:** Cause you don't understand. You're_

_**Emily:**_ Shallow!

**_Nohbdy_ ** _: Shallow!_

Quinn wasn't aware she was making a scene until she looked up to find Rosalita looking at her with a half amused, half WTF look. Quinn snorted, her shoulders shaking.

**_Emily:_ ** _I'm totally embarrassing myself right now._

_**Nohbdy:** I can't believe I'mm issing that, lol! I can't believe someone else even knows that song!_

_**Emily:** What? Classic._

_**Nohbdy:** Who would you have been?_

_**Emily:** What do you mean?_

**_Nohbdy:_ ** _On the show._

_**Emily:** Morgan._

_**Nohbdy:** Morgan?_

_**Emily:** The little sister._

_**Nohbdy:** I know, but why?_

_**Emily** : I went upstairs for three years, and didn't come back down._

_**Nohbdy** : Emsie…._

_**Emily:** Who would you have been?_

_**Nohbdy** : Sean, all the way. Or is it Shawn?_

Something just occurred to Quinn.

**_Emily:_ ** _You not drinking tonight?_

_**Nohbdy:** No gig._

_**Emily:** I have to tell you something. Two somethings. One you're probably not going to like, the other, I'm not sure._

_**Nohbdy:** Ok…_

_**Nohbdy:** Are you a man?_

_**Emily:** Sunday is my last day._

_…._

_**Nohbdy:** I guess that figures. What's the other?_

_**Emily:** I would go on a second 'date' with you in a heartbeat. Mindy…she's lucky. Don't let her escape._

Quinn's heart thudded, waiting for her reply.

_**Nohbdy:** I've realized that I've been holding on to long to my past; that's why we've never tried this thing, before. Because I've been in love with someone else, but I'm starting to let it go._

**_Emily_ ** _: That's what I need to do._

_**Nohbdy:** Yea?_

_**Emily** : There was this girl._

_**Nohbdy** : Isn't it always?_

_**Emily:** It's…she left me…in the bed after a one-night stand. Before I could leave her. And I would have, if given the chance. I left her anyway. I've been avoiding my past for so long, because I've been worried about having to explain why I did what I did, worried that I had ruined another great thing, just like I had with my first girlfriend. So I came out here, and I stayed._

_**Nohbdy:** And have been chasing ghosts ever since?_

Quinn looked down, surprised at the time.

_**Emily:** Not entirely. Mostly just for the past couple of months. But…that's a story for another day._

_**Nohbdy:** Time for the sunrise?_

_**Emily:** Yea._

_**Nohbdy:** One more day?_

_**Emily** : One more._

_**Nohbdy:** See you then._

Quinn sent her the link.

**_Nohbdy:_ ** _Night Emsie._

_**Emily** : Good night...Tiffany?_

_**Nohbdy:** Hah…Not even close. :-). Good night._

Quinn felt an acute sense of loss when she ended the chat session. For the first time since they started talking, Quinn didn't feel as if she was talking to Santana, and oddly, that thought didn't bother her at all.

She printed out her conversation, and walked with slow footsteps up her 26 steps for the day. 52 left.


End file.
